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HEMPFIELD 


Yes,  surrendered.     Haven't  you  sent  for  money?     Haven't  you 
given  up?     Aren't  you  trying  to  run  away?" 


HEMPFIELD 

A  Novel 

P 


/' 


By 


DAVID  GRAYSON 

Author  of 

"Adventures  in  Contentment,"  "Adventures  in 
Friendship,"  "The  Friendly  Road" 


Illustrated  by  Thomas  Fogarty 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1915 


PS 


?  SO  3 


H 


Copyright,  rp/5,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &    COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 

COPYRIGHT,  1914,   I9IS,  BY  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  I  Discover  the  Printing-office 

II.  I  Step  Boldly  into  the  Story 

III.  Anthy 

IV.  Enter  Mr.  Ed  Smith        .... 
V.     Nort 

VI.  A  Man  to  Help  Fergus     .... 

VII.  Phaeton  Drives  the  Chariot  of  the 

Star 

VIII.     Nort  and  Anthy 

IX.     A  Letter  to  Lincoln 

X.     The  Wonderful  Day 

XI.  In  Which  Great  Plans  Are  Evolved, 


PAGE 

3 

23 
37 


83 

101 
118 

123 

133 


XII. 


and  There  Is  a  Surprising  Event      151 
The  Explosion 171 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  Anthy  Takes  Command    .      .      .  190 

XIV.  We  Begin  the  Subjugation  of  Nort  204 

XV.     I    Get    Better    Acquainted    with 

Anthy 222 

XVI.     The  Old  Captain  Comes  into  His 

Own 228 

XVII.     In  Which  Certain  Deep  Matters 

of  the  Heart  Are  Presented      .  236 

XVIII.     Nort  Sniffs 240 

XIX.     Fergus's  Favourite  Poem        .      .  250 

XX.     The  Celebration 260 

XXI.     Starlight 270 

XXII.     Fergus  and  Nort 275 

XXIII.  The  Battle 289 

XXIV.  Two  Letters 300 

XXV.     The  Flying  machine     ....  305 

XXVI.     The  Return  of  the  Prodigal    .       .  312 

XXVII.      Fergus   MacGregor   Goes   to    the 

Hills 321 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Yes,  surrendered.  Haven't  you  sent  for 
money?  Haven't  you  given  up?  Aren't 
you  trying  to  run  away?"  Frontispiece  in  color 


FACING  PAGE 


Ed's  innocent  suggestion  of  a  house-cleaning 
was  taken  by  Fergus  as  a  deadly  affront  68 

John  Bass's  blacksmith  shop         ....        76 

He  pictured  himself  sitting  in  the  quiet  study 
of  the  minister,  looking  sad,  sad  ...  78 

What  a  thing  is  youth!  That  sunny  morn 
ing  in  Hempfield  Nort  thought  that  he 
was  drinking  the  uttermost  dregs  of  life— 
and  yet,  somehow,  he  was  able  to  stand  a 
little  aside  and  enjoy  it  all  ....  80 


viii  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING  PAGE 


u\Vell!"  exclaimed  Nort,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "  I  never  imagined  it  would  feel 
so  good  to  be  orfunts  " 104 

She  turned  around  quickly — but  there  was 
no  one  there  to  see 128 

After  that  she  opened  her  heart  more  and 

more  to  me — a  little  here,  a  little  there    .      224 

•'  David,  I  saw  a  face  looking  in  at  that 
window " 286 

Illustrations  in  Text 

PAGE 

It  sat  there  in  its  garden  and  watched  with 
mild  interest  the  hasty  world  go  by  .  .  II 

A  very  lonely  little  girl,  sitting  at  a  certain 
place  on  the  third  step  from  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs 40 

The  home  of  her  girlhood  seemed  dreadfully 

shabby,  small,  and  old-fashioned  ...        42 

I  soon  found  that  every  one  else  in  the  office, 
Anthy  included,  had  begun  to  be  inter 
ested  in  Nort 91 

"  I  tell  you,  Miss  Doane,"  said  Nort,  ex 
plosively,  "the  only  way  to  make  a  suc 
cess  of  the  Star  is  to  publish  the  truth 
about  Hempfield—  ' 169 


ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  TEXT  ix 

PAGE 

"Practical!"  he  exploded.  "You  are  a 
blackguard,  sir!  You  are  a  scoundrel,  sir!"  185 

The   old   Captain   was   perfect.     He  was  a 

very  pattern  of  gallantry 268 

"Toys!    Mere  circus  tricks  to  take  in  fools!"     310 

"  I  couldn't  stay  away  another  minute.  I 
had  to  know  what  the  old  Captain  said 
and  did  when  the  flying  machine  came  to 
Hempfield " 314 

Fergus  stuck  his  small  battered  volume  of 
Robert  Burns's  poems  in  his  pocket — and 
going  out  of  the  back  door  struck  out  for 
the  hills 332 


HEMPFIELD 


CHAPTER  I 

I    DISCOVER   THE    PRINTING-OFFICE 

FOR  years  my  sister  Harriet  and  I  con 
fined  our  relationships  with  the  neigh 
bouring  town  of  Hempfield  to  the  Biblical 
"yea,  yea"  and  "nay,  nay,"  not  knowing 
how  much  we  missed,  and  used  its  friendly 
people  as  one  might  use  an  inanimate  plough 
or  an  insensate  rolling-pin,  as  mere  imple 
ments  or  adjuncts  in  the  provision  of  food 
or  clothing  for  our  needs. 

It  came  only  gradually  alive  for  us.  As 
the  years  passed  the  utilitarian  stranger  with 
whom  we  traded  became  an  acquaintance,  and 
the  acquaintance  a  friend.  Here  and  there 
a  man  or  a  woman  stepped  out  of  the  back 
ground,  as  it  were,  of  a  dim  picture,  and  became 
a  living  being.  One  of  the  first  was  the  old 

3 


4  HEMPFIELD 

gunsmith  of  whom  I  have  already  written. 
Another  was  Doctor  North — though  he  really 
lived  outside  the  town — whom  we  came  to 
know  late  in  his  career.  He  was  one  of  the 
great  unknown  men  of  this  country;  he  lives 
yet  in  many  lives,  a  sort  of  immortality  which 
comes  only  to  those  who  have  learned  the 
greatest  art  of  all  arts,  the  art  of  life.  The 
Scotch  preacher,  whom  we  have  loved  as  we 
love  few  human  beings,  was  also  in  reality 
a  part  of  the  town,  though  we  always  felt 
that  he  belonged  to  our  own  particular  neigh 
bourhood.  He  was  ever  a  friend  to  all  men, 
town  or  country. 

It  has  always  been  something  of  a  mystery 
to  me,  when  I  think  of  it,  how  I  happened  for 
so  long  to  miss  knowing  more  about  old  Cap 
tain  Doane,  and  MacGregor,  that  roseate 
Scotchman.  It  is  easier  to  understand  why  I 
never  knew  Anthy,  for  she  was  much  away 
from  Hempfield  in  the  years  just  after  I  came 
here;  and  as  for  Norton  Carr  and  Ed  Smith, 
they  did  not  come  until  some  time  afterward. 

I  shall  later  celebrate  Nort's  arrival  in 
Hempfield — and  may  petition  the  selectmen 
to  set  up  a  monument  upon  the  spot  of  this 
precious  soil  where  he  first  set  a  shaky  foot. 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  5 

I  lived  before  I  knew  Anthy  and  Nort  and 
MacGregor  and  the  old  Captain,  but  sometimes 
I  wonder  how  I  lived.  When  we  let  new  friends 
into  our  liveswe  become  permanently  enlarged, 
and  marvel  that  we  could  ever  have  lived  in  a 
smaller  world. 

So  I  came  to  know  Hempfield,  and  all  those 
stories — humorous,  tragic,  exciting,  bitter,  sor 
rowful — which  thrive  so  lustily  in  every  small 
town.  As  we  treasure  finally  those  books 
which  are  not,  after  all,  concerned  with  clap 
ping  finite  conclusions  to  infinite  events,  but 
are  content  to  be  beautiful  as  they  go  (as 
truth  is  beautiful),  so  I  love  the  living  stories  of 
Hempfield,  nor  care  deeply  whether  they  are  at 
Chapter  I,  or  in  the  midst  of  the  climax,  or 
whether  they  are  tapering  toward  a  Gothic- 
lettered  "Finis."  Only  I  have  never  once 
come  across  any  Hempfield  story  that  can  be 
said  to  have  reached  a  final  page.  Every 
Hempfield  story  I  know  has  been  like  a  stone 
dropped  in  the  puddle  of  life,  with  ripples  that 
grow  ever  wider  with  the  years.  And  I  es 
teem  it  the  best  thing  in  my  life  that  I  have 
had  a  part  in  some  of  those  stories:  that  a  few 
people,  perhaps,  are  different,  as  I  am  different, 
because  I  passed  that  way. 


6  HEMPFIELD 

How  well  I  remember  the  evening  when  my 
eye  was  first  caught  by  the  twinkle  of  that 
luminary,  the  Hempfield  Star,  with  which 
afterward  I  was  to  become  so  intimately 
acquainted.  It  came  to  me  like  a  fresh  breeze 
on  a  sultry  day,  or  a  new  man  in  the  town  road. 
It  was  a  paragraph  in  the  editorial  page, 
headed  with  a  single  word  printed  in  robust 
black  type: 

FUDGE 

At  that  time  I  had  been  "taking  in"  the 
Star  (as  they  say  here)  for  only  a  few  weeks, 
and  had  seen  little  in  it  that  made  it  appear 
different  from  any  other  weekly  newspaper.  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  had  entertained  a 
good-humoured  tolerance,  mingled  with  con 
tempt,  for  country  newspapers.  They  seemed 
to  me  the  apotheosis  of  the  little,  the  palla 
dium  of  the  uninteresting.  It  did  not  occur  to 
me  that  anything  possessed  of  such  tenacity  of 
life  as  the  country  newspaper  must  have  a  real 
meaning  and  perform  a  genuine  function  in 
our  civilization.  In  this  roaring  age  of  effi 
ciency  we  do  not  long  support  any  institution 
that  does  not  set  its  claws  deep  into  our  com 
mon  life — and  hang  on. 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  7 

I  began  to  take  the  Star  as  a  sort  of  con 
cession,  arguing  with  myself  that  it  would  at 
least  give  me  the  weekly  price  of  eggs  and 
potatoes;  and,  besides,  Harriet  always  wants 
to  know  regularly  where  the  Ladies'  Literary 
Society  is  to  hold  its  meetings. 

You  cannot  imagine  my  surprise  and  interest 
then,  when  I  came  abruptly  upon  that  ex 
plosive,  black-typed  "Fudge"  in  the  middle  of 
the  Star.  I  have  always  had  a  fondness  for 
the  word.  It  is  like  a  breath  of  fresh  air  in 
a  stuffy  library,  and  any  man  who  can  say 
"Fudge"  in  a  big,  round  voice  has  something 
in  him.  He's  got  views  and  a  personality,  even 
though  the  views  may  be  crooked  and  the 
personality  prickly. 

With  what  joy  I  read  that  paragraph — and 
cut  it  from  the  paper,  and  have  it  yet  in  my 
golden  treasury.  This  is  it: 

FUDGE 

A  fellow  named  Wright,  who  lives  out  in  Ohio,  says 
he  can  fly.  Mr.  Wright  is  wrong.  If  the  Lord  had  in 
tended  human  beings  to  fly  He  would  have  grown  wings 
on  us.  He  made  birds  for  the  air,  and  fish  for  the  sea,  and 
men  to  walk  on  two  legs.  It  is  a  common  characteristic 
of  flying-machine  inventors  and  Democrats  that  they 


8  HEMPFIELD 

are  not  satisfied  with  the  doings  of  the  Lord,  but  must 
be  turning  the  world  topsy-turvy.  Mr.  Wright  of  Ohio 
should  peruse  the  historic  story  of  Darius  Green  and  his 
flying  machine.  If  memory  serves  us  right  Darius 
bumped  his  head,  and  afterward  lived  a  sensible  life. 
The  Star  would  commend  the  example  of  Mr.  Green  to 
Mr.  Wright — and  the  Democrats. 

Harriet  heard  me  laughing,  and  called  from 
the  other  room: 

" David,  what  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"Why,  a  new  judge  in  Israel  "—and  I 
read  the  paragraph  aloud  with  the  keenest 
delight. 

"But  I  thought  Mr.  Wright  could  fly!"  said 
my  sister  doubtfully. 

"Well,  he  can,"  said  I,  "only  this  writer  is 
a  Republican." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  standing  there 
in  the  doorway  while  I  watched  with  interest 
the  gathering  question. 

"  But  I  don't  see  why  a  Republican — if  he 
can  fly— 

"Harriet,"  I  began  rather  oratorically,  "this 
is  a  very  interesting  and  amusing  world  we 
live  in,  and  it  is  fortunate  that  we  do  not  all 
believe  everything  we  see  or  hear — at  any 
rate,  I'd  like  to  meet  the  man  who  wrote  that 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  9 

paragraph.  I  feel  certain  that  he  is  one  of  the 
everlasting  rocks  of  New  England." 

It  was  this  amusing  little  incident,  rather 
than  the  really  serious  purpose  that  lay  back  of 
it,  that  sent  me  at  last  to  Hempfield.  I  kept 
thinking  about  the  man  of  the  paragraph  as  I 
went  about  my  work,  chuckling  in  the  cow 
stable  or  pausing  when  I  was  putting  down 
the  hay.  I  imagined  him  an  old  fellow  with 
gray  chin  whiskers,  a  pair  of  spectacles  set 
low  on  his  nose,  and  a  frown  between  his 
eyes. 

"How  he  does  despise  Democrats!"  I  said  to 
myself. 

And  yet — our  instinct  for  the  compensatory 
view  being  irresistible — a  pretty  good  old  chap! 
I  thought  I  should  like  him,  somehow. 

One  early  morning  in  May,  the  spring  hav 
ing  opened  with  rare  splendour,  I  hitched  up 
the  mare  and  drove  to  town.  Ostensibly  I  was 
going  for  a  few  ears  of  seed  corn,  a  new  tooth  for 
my  cultivator,  and  a  ham  for  Harriet— so  is  the 
spirit  bound  down  to  the  mundane — but  in 
reality  I  was  looking  for  the  man  who  could 
say  "  Fudge"  with  such  bluff  assurance. 

It  was  a  wonderful  spring  morning,  and  I  did 
not  in  the  least  know  as  I  drove  the  old  mare  in 


io  HEMPFIELD 

the  town  road,  with  all  the  familiar  hills  and 
trees  about  me,  that  I  was  going  into  a  new 
country,  fairer  by  far  than  ours,  where  the 
clouds  are  higher  than  they  are  here,  and  the 
grass  is  greener,  where  all  the  men  grow  taller 
and  the  women  more  beautiful. 

I  asked  Nort  once,  long  afterward,  if  he 
could  remember  the  first  impression  he  had 
when  he  came  to  Hempfield  and  saw  the 
printing-office.  Nort  frowned,  as  though  think 
ing  hard,  and  made  a  characteristic  reply: 

"I  don't  rightly  remember,"  said  he,  "of  hav 
ing  any  first  impression,  until  I  saw  Anthy." 

But  I  will  not  be  hurried  even  to  my  meeting 
with  Anthy;  for  I  have  a  very  vivid  first  impres 
sion  of  the  printing-office  as  it  sat  like  a  con 
templative  old  gentleman  in  its  ancient  and 
shabby  garden. 

First  we  see  things  with  our  eyes,  see  them 
flat  like  pictures  in  a  book,  and  that  isn't  really 
sight  at  all.  Then  some  day  we  see  them  with 
the  heart,  or  the  soul,  or  the  spirit — I'm  not 
certain  just  what  it  is  that  really  sees,  but  it  is 
something  warm  and  strong  and  light  inside  of 
us — and  that  is  the  true  sight. 

I  had  driven  the  streets  of  Hempfield  for 
years,  and  gone  in  at  the  grocery  stores,  made  a 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE 


ii 


familiar  resort  of  the  gunsmith  shop,  and  vis 
ited  the  post  office,  but  had  never  really  seen 
the  printing-office  at  all. 

Like   most   things   or   people   really  worth 


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It  sat  there  in  its  garden  and  watched  with  mild  interest 
the  hasty  world  go  by 

knowing,  the  printing-office  is  of  a  retiring 
disposition.  It  is  an  old  building,  once  a 
dwelling-house,  which  stands  somewhat  back 


12  HEMPFIELD 

from  the  street,  with  a  quaint  old  garden 
around  it.  An  ancient  picket  fence,  nicked 
and  whittled  by  a  generation  or  so  of  boys  who 
should  have  known  better,  guards  its  privacy. 
At  the  tip  of  the  low  cornice  is  a  weatherbeaten 
bird  house,  a  miniature  Greek  Parthenon, 
where  the  wrens  built  their  nests.  Larger 
and  more  progressive  business  buildings  had 
crowded  up  to  the  street  lines  on  both  sides 
of  it,  and  yet  it  managed  to  preserve  some 
how  an  air  of  ancient  gentility.  The  gate 
sagged  on  its  hinges,  the  chimney  had  lost  a 
brick  or  two,  but  it  sat  there  in  its  garden  and 
watched  with  mild  interest  the  hasty  world  go 
by. 

I  wondered,  that  morning,  why  the  peculiar 
air  of  the  place  had  never  before  touched  me. 
I  paused  a  moment,  looking  in  at  it  with  such  a 
feeling  of  expectancy  as  I  cannot  well  describe. 
I  did  not  know  what  adventure  might  there  be 
fall  me.  At  any  moment  I  half  expected  to  see 
my  imagined  old  fellow  appear  on  the  doorstep 
and  cry  out,  half  ironically,  half  explosively: 

"Fudge!"  Upon  which,  undoubtedly,  I 
should  have  disappeared  into  thin  air. 

There  being  no  sign  of  life,  for  it  was  still 
very  early  in  the  morning,  I  opened  the  gate 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  13 

and  went  in.  Over  the  front  door  stretched  a 
weatherbeaten  sign  bearing  these  words  in  large 
letters: 

THE   HEMPFIELD   STAR 

Under  this  name  there  was  a  line  of  smaller 
lettering,  so  faded  that  one  could  not  easily 
read  it  from  the  street.  But  as  I  stood  now  at 
the  doorway  and  looked  up  I  could  make  it 
out — and  it  came  to  me,  I  cannot  tell  with 
what  charm,  like  the  far-off  echo  of  ancient 
laughter: 

Hitch   Your  Wagon  to  the  Star 

Below  this  legend  in  fresher  paint,  bearing 
indeed  the  evidence  of  repainting,  for  many 
are  the  vicissitudes  of  a  country  newspaper, 
was  the  name  of  the  firm : 

Doane  &  Doane 

I  went  up  the  steps  to  the  little  porch  and 
looked  in  at  the  doorway.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  odour  of  printer's  ink  which  came  warmly 
to  my  nostrils,  the  never-to-be-forgotten  odour 
of  printer's  ink,  sweeter  than  the  spices  of 
Araby,  more  alluring  than  attar  of  roses!  .  .  . 


i4  HEMPFIELD 

It  was  a  long,  low  room,  with  pasted  pictures  on 
the  walls,  a  row  of  dingy  cases  at  one  side,  the 
press  at  the  farther  end,  the  stones  near  it,  and 
a  cutting  machine  with  its  arm  raised  aloft  as 
though  to  command  attention.  The  editor's 
desk  in  the  corner  was  heaped  so  high  with 
books  and  papers  and  magazines  and  pam 
phlets  that  another  single  one  added  to  the  pile 
would  certainly  have  produced  an  avalanche— 
and  ended  ignominiously  in  the  capacious 
wastebasket. 

For  all  its  dinginess  and  its  picturesque  dis 
order  there  was  something  infinitely  beguiling 
about  the  room.  In  the  front  window  stood  a 
row  of  potted  geraniums,  very  thrifty,  and 
there  was  a  yellow  canary  in  a  cage,  and  the 
editor's  ancient  chair  (one  lame  leg  bandaged 
with  string)  was  occupied  by  an  old  fat  gray 
cat,  curled  up  on  a  cushion  and  comfortably 
asleep.  A  light  breeze  came  in  at  one  of  the 
windows,  fingered  a  leaf  of  the  calendar  to 
make  sure  that  it  was  really  spring  again,  and 
went  out  blithely  at  the  other  window. 

I  liked  it:  I  liked  it  all. 

'There  is  a  fine  woman  around  this  shop 
somewhere,"  I  said  to  myself,  "or  else  a  very 
fine  man." 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  15 

My  vision  of  the  daring  paragrapher  who 
could  say  "Fudge"  with  such  virgin  en 
thusiasm  instantly  shifted.  I  saw  him  now  as 
something  of  a  poet — still  old,  but  with  a 
pleasing  beard  (none  of  your  common  chin 
whiskers)  and  rarely  fine  eyes,  a  man  who 
could  care  for  flowers  in  the  window  and  keep 
the  cat  from  the  canary. 

At  that  instant  my  eyes  were  smitten  with 
stark  reality,  my  imagination  wrecked  upon 
the  reef  of  fact.  I  saw  Fergus  MacGregor. 

Fergus  is  one  of  those  men  who  should 
always  be  seen  for  the  first  time:  after  you 
begin  to  know  him,  you  can't  rightly  appreciate 
him. 

He  was  sitting  away  back  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  by  his  favourite  window,  tipped  back  in 
his  chair,  with  one  heel  hooked  over  a  rung, 
the  other  leg  playing  loose  in  space,  sadly 
reading  the  "Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer" 
which  he  considers  the  greatest  book  in  the 
world — next  to  Robert  Burns's  poems. 

Fergus  has  always  been  good  for  me.  He  is 
all  facts,  like  roast  beef,  or  asparagus,  or  a 
wheel  in  a  rut.  It  is  almost  impossible  to 
idealize  Fergus:  he  has  freckles  and  red  hair  on 
his  hands.  When  Fergus  first  came  to  Hemp- 


16  HEMPFIELD 

field,  one  of  our  good  old  Yankee  citizens,  who 
had  never  seen  much  of  foreigners  and  there 
fore  considered  them  all  immoral,  said  he 
never  had  liked  Frenchmen. 

Whenever  I  am  soaring  aloft,  as  I  think  I 
am  too  likely  to  do,  I  have  to  be  very  firm  in 
the  wings,  else  the  sight  of  Fergus  MacGregor, 
with  his  red  hair,  his  scorched  face,  and  his 
angular  wiry  frame,  will  bring  me  straight 
down  to  earth.  He  brought  me  down  the  first 
morning  I  laid  eyes  on  him.  As  I  stood  there 
in  the  printing-office,  looking  about  me,  Fergus 
glanced  up  from  the  "Adventures  of  Tom 
Sawyer"  and  said: 

"Wull?" 

I  can't  tell  you  what  worlds  of  solid  reality 
were  packed  into  that  single  word.  At  once 
all  my  imaginings  came  tumbling  about  me. 
What,  after  all,  had  I  come  for?  \Vhy  was  I 
in  this  absurd  printing-office  ?  What  wild- 
goose  chase  was  I  on?  I  should  really  be 
at  home  planting  potatoes.  Potatoes,  cows, 
corn,  cash — surely  there  were  no  other  realities 
in  life !  For  an  instant  the  visions  of  the  fields 
died  within  me,  and  I  felt  sick  and  weak.  You 
will  understand — if  you  understand. 

I  thought,  as  I  stood  there  stupidly,  that 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  17 

this  was  indeed  the  man  who  would  say 
"  Fudge ! "  to  all  the  world. 

I  groped  in  a  wandering  mind  for  some 
adequate  way  of  escape,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
presently  that  I  could  order  a  thousand  envel 
opes,  with  my  name  printed  in  the  corner, 
and  bring  him  to  terms.  No,  I'd  order  five 
thousand — and  utterly  obliterate  him! 

"Wull?"  said  Fergus. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  this  second  "Wull?"  I 
might  have  gone  back  to  my  immemorial 
existence  and  never  have  brought  my  new 
vision  to  the  hard  test  of  life,  never  have  known 
Anthy,  never  have  felt  the  glory  of  a  new 
earth. 

But  with  that  second  "Wull?"  which  was 
even  more  devastating  than  the  first,  I  felt 
something  electric,  warm,  strong,  stinging 
through  me.  I  had  a  curious  sense  of  high 
happiness,  and  before  I  knew  it  I  was  say 
ing: 

"  After  all,  men  <fo  fly!" 

I  laugh  still  when  I  remember  how  Fergus 
MacGregor  looked  at  me.  For  a  long  moment 
he  said  nothing  as  eloquently  as  ever  I  heard  it 
said.  I  began  to  feel  the  humour  of  the 
situation  (humour  is  the  fellow  that  always 


i8  HEMPFIELD 

waits  just  around  the  corner  until  the  danger 
is  past),  but  I  said  in  all  seriousness: 

"I'm  looking  for  the  man  who  wrote  an 
editorial  last  week  headed  'Fudge.'  He 
doesn't  appear  to  approve  of  flying  machines." 

Fergus  had  not  stirred  by  so  much  as  the 
fraction  of  an  inch.  He  looked  at  me  for 
another  instant  and  then  paid  me,  if  I  had 
known  it,  a  most  surprising  compliment.  He 
smiled.  His  face  slowly  cracked  open — I  can 
express  it  no  other  way — and  remained  cracked 
for  the  space  of  two  seconds,  and  returned  to 
its  usual  condition.  Fergus's  smile  is  one  of 
the  wonders  of  nature. 

"What  ye  going  to  do?"  asked  Fergus. 
"Thrash  the  editor?" 

"No,"  said  I,  "convert  him." 

Fergus  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"Ye  can't,"  said  he. 

"I've  already  begun,"  said  I. 

Fergus  looked  me  over  for  a  moment,  and 
smiled  again,  this  time  winding  up  with  a 
snort  or  a  cough,  which  started  to  be  a  laugh,  but 
stopped  away  down  somewhere  inside  of  him. 

"Ye  think  I  wrote  it?" 

"Well,"  said  I,  "you  look  perfectly  capable 
of  it." 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  19 

I  was  just  beginning  to  enjoy  thoroughly 
this  give  and  take  of  conversation,  which  of  all 
sports  in  the  world  is  certainly  the  most  fas 
cinating,  when  I  heard  steps  behind  me  and, 
turning  half  around,  saw  Anthy  for  the  first 
time. 

'There's  the  editor,"  said  Fergus.    "Ask  her 
yourself." 

She  came  down  the  room  toward  me  with  a 
quick,  businesslike  step.  She  wore  a  little 
round  straw  hat  with  a  plain  band.  She  had  a 
sprig  of  lilac  on  her  coat,  and  looked  at  me 
directly — like  a  man.  She  had  very  clear  blue 
eyes. 

I  have  thought  of  this  meeting  a  thousand 
times  since — in  the  light  of  all  that  followed— 
and  this  is  literally  all  I  saw.  I  was  not 
especially  impressed  in  any  way,  except  per 
haps  with  a  feeling  of  wonder  that  this  was  the 
person  in  authority,  really  the  editor. 

I  have  tried  to  recall  every  instant  of  that 
meeting,  and  cannot  remember  that  I  thought 
of  her  either  as  young  or  as  a  woman.  Perhaps 
the  excitement  and  amusement  of  my  talk  with 
Fergus  served  to  prevent  a  more  vivid  first 
impression.  I  speak  of  this  reaction  because 
all  my  life,  whenever  I  have  met  a  woman — I 


20  HEMPFIELD 

have  been  much  alone — I  have  had  a  curious 
sense  of  being  with  some  one  a  little  higher  or 
better  than  I  am,  to  whom  I  should  bow,  or  to 
whom  I  should  present  something,  or  with 
whom  I  should  joke.  With  whom  I  should 
not,  after  all,  be  quite  natural!  I  wonder  if 
this  is  at  all  an  ordinary  experience  with  men? 
I  wonder  if  any  one  will  understand  me  when  I 
say  that  there  has  always  seemed  to  me  some 
thing  not  quite  proper  in  talking  to  a  woman 
directly,  seriously,  without  reservation,  as  to  a 
man  ?  But  I  record  it  here  as  a  curious  fact  that 
I  met  Anthy  that  morning  just  as  I  would  have 
met  a  man — as  one  human  being  facing  another. 

"I  am  the  editor,"  she  said  crisply,  but  with 
good  humour. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I'm  afraid  I'm  on  a  rather 
unusual  and  unbusinesslike  errand." 

She  did  not  help  me. 

"Last  week  I  read  an  editorial  in  your  paper 
which  amused — interested — me  very  much. 
It  was  headed  'Fudge/  The  writer  plainly 
doesn't  believe  either  in  flying  machines  or  in 
Democrats." 

I  heard  Fergus  bark  behind  me. 

"He's  going  to  thrash  the  writer,"  said 
Fergus. 


THE  PRINTING-OFFICE  21 

Anthy  glanced  swiftly  across  at  Fergus.  It 
occurred  to  me  in  a  flash: 

"Why,  she  wrote  it!" 

The  sudden  thought  of  the  chin  whiskers  I 
had  fastened  upon  the  imaginary  writer  was 
too  much  for  me,  and  I  laughed  outright. 

''Well,"  said  I,  "I  shall  not  attempt  any 
extreme  measures  until  I  try,  at  least,  to  con 
vert  her." 

I  saw  now  that  I  had  said  something  really 
amusing,  for  Fergus  barked  twice  behind  me 
and  Anthy  broke  into  the  liveliest  laughter. 

"You  don't  really  think  I  wrote  it?"  she 
inquired  in  the  roundest  astonishment,  with 
one  hand  on  her  breast. 

"I  should  certainly  be  very  well  repaid  for 
my  visit,"  said  I,  "  if  I  thought  you  did." 

"Won't  that  amuse  the  Captain!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"So  the  Captain  wrote  it,"  I  said,  not  know 
ing  in  the  least  who  the  Captain  was.  'Tell 
me,  has  he  chin  whiskers?" 

"Why?  "asked  Anthy. 

"Well,  when  I  read  that  editorial,"  I  said, 
beginning  again  to  enjoy  the  give  and  take  ot 
the  conversation,  "  I  imagined  the  sort  of  man 
who  must  have  written  it:  chin  whiskers, 


22  HEMPFIELD 

spectacles  low  on  his  nose,  very  severe  on  all 
young  things." 

Anthy  looked  at  Fergus. 

"And  does  he  by  any  chance"  —I  inquired  in 
as  serious  a  manner  as  I  could  command,  "I 
mean,  of  course,  when  he  is  angry — kick  the 

.   3  » 

cat? 

At  this  Fergus  came  down  with  a  bang  on 
all  four  legs  of  his  chair,  and  we  all  laughed 
together. 

"Say,"  said  Fergus,  "I  don't  know  who  ye 
are,  but  ye're  all  right!" 

And  that  was  the  way  I  came  first  to  the 
printing-office. 


CHAPTER  II 

I  STEP  BOLDLY  INTO  THE  STORY 

IT  IS  one  of  the  provoking,  but  interesting, 
things  about  life  that  it  will  never  stop  a 
moment  for  admiration.  No  sooner  do  you 
pause  to  enjoy  it,  or  philosophize  over  it,  or 
poetize  about  it,  than  it  is  up  and  away,  and 
the  next  time  you  glance  around  it  is  vanishing 
over  the  hill — with  the  wind  in  its  garments 
and  the  sun  in  its  hair.  If  you  do  not  go  on 
with  life,  it  will  go  on  without  you.  The  only 
safe  way,  then,  to  follow  a  story,  I  mean  a 
story  in  real  life,  is  to  get  right  into  it  yourself. 
How  breathless,  then,  it  becomes,  how  you 
long  for — and  yet  fear — the  next  chapter,  how 
you  love  the  heroine  and  hate  the  villain,  and 

23 


24  HEMPFIELD 

never  for  an  instant  can  you  tell  how  it  is  all 
coming  out! 

I  should  be  tempted  to  say  that  I  arrived  at 
the  printing-office  at  a  psychological  moment 
if  it  were  not  for  the  fact,  as  I  soon  learned,  that 
most  of  the  moments  for  several  months  past 
had  been  equally  psychological.  Indeed,  be 
fore  I  had  fairly  got  acquainted  with  the 
printing-office,  and  with  Fergus  and  Anthy, 
and  was  expecting  momentarily  to  hear  the 
Captain  coming  in,  crying  "Fudge,"  the  story 
moved  on,  as  majestically  as  if  I  hadn't  ap 
peared  at  all. 

In  a  story  or  a  play  you  can  set  your  stage 
for  your  crises,  and  lead  up  to  the  entrance  of 
your  villain  with  appropriate  literary  flour 
ishes.  You  can  artfully  let  us  know  before 
hand  that  it  is  really  a  villain  who  is  about  to 
intrude  upon  your  paradise,  and  dim  the  voice 
of  the  canary  and  frighten  the  cat.  But  in 
real  life,  events  and  crises  have  a  disconcert 
ing  way  of  backing  into  your  narrative  before 
ever  you  are  ready  for  them,  and  at  the  most 
awkward  and  inconvenient  times. 

It  was  thus  that  Bucky  Penrose  came  into 
the  printing-office  that  spring  morning.  He 
was  struggling  with  a  small  but  weighty  box 


I  STEP  INTO  THE  STORY  25 

filled  with  literature  in  metal.  When  he  had 
got  it  well  inside,  he  deposited  it,  not  at  all 
gently,  on  a  stool,  took  off  his  cap,  and  wiped 
his  forehead. 

"  Whew,  it's  hot  this  morning!"  said  Bucky. 

Now,  I  dislike  to  speak  of  Bucky  as  a  villain, 
for  of  all  the  people  in  Hempfield  Bucky  cer 
tainly  least  looks  the  part.  He  has  towy  hair 
and  mild,  light-blue  eyes.  He  wears  a  visor 
cap  and  carries  a  long,  flat  book  which  he  flaps 
open  for  you  to  sign.  He  is  the  expressman. 

I  could  see,  however,  from  the  look  in 
Anthy's  face  that  Bucky  was  really  a  hardened 
villain.  And  Bucky  himself  seemed  to  know 
it  and  feel  it,  for  it  was  in  an  apologetic  voice 
that  he  said: 

'The  plates  is  a  dollar  this  week,  Miss 
Doane,  and  the  insides  is  seven  and  a  half, 
C.  O.  D." 

Anthy's  hand  went  to  the  little  leather  bag 
she  carried. 

"I — I  didn't  bring  up  the  insides  in  this 
load.  Mr.  Peters  said — the  Captain— 

Anthy  had  taken  a  step  forward,  and  there 
was  a  look  of  sudden  determination  in  her  face. 

"Never  mind,  Bucky,  about  the  Cap 
tain-  -" 


26  HEMPFIELD 

"Well,  I  thought- 
He  was  thinking  just  what  the  whole  of 
Hempfield  was  thinking,  and  dared  not  say. 
The  colour  came  up  in  Anthy's  cheeks,  but  she 
only  lifted  her  chin  the  higher. 

'Tell  Mr.  Peters  to  send  up  the  insides  at 
once,  Bucky,  at  once.  The  money  will  be 
ready  for  him." 

"All  right,  Miss  Doane,  all  right — but  I 
thought— 

"Don't  think,"  growled  MacGregor,  who 
had  been  standing  aside  and  saying  nothing; 
"it  ain't  your  calling." 

Bucky  turned  fiercely  to  reply,  but  Anthy 
suddenly  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"In  the  future,  Bucky,  don't  go  to  the  Cap 
tain  at  all.  Come  straight  to  me." 

"Tain't  my  fault,"  grumbled  Bucky;  "I 
got  to  collect." 

"Certainly  you  have,"  said  Anthy;  "I'll  pay 
you  for  the  box,  and  you  can  bring  the  insides 
later.  Tell  Mr.  Peters." 

It  was  magnificent  the  way  she  carried  it 
off;  and  when  at  last  the  villain  had  departed, 
she  turned  to  us  with  a  face  slightly  flushed, 
but  in  perfect  control.  I  had  a  sudden  curious 
lift  of  the  heart:  for  there  is  nothing  that  so 


I  STEP  INTO  THE  STORY  27 

stirs  the  soul  of  a  man  as  the  sight  of  courage 
in  a  woman.  If  I  had  been  interested  before, 
I  was  doubly  interested  now.  It  had  been  one 
of  those  lightning-flash  incidents  which  let  us 
more  deeply  into  the  real  life  of  men  than 
pages  of  history.  I  felt  that  this  printing- 
office  was  sacred  ground,  the  scene  of  battle 
and  trial  and  commotion. 

At  the  same  time  the  whole  situation  struck 
me  with  a  sudden  sense  of  amusement  and 
surprise.  Back  somewhere  in  my  conscious 
ness  I  had  always  felt  something  of  awe 
for  the  Power  of  the  Press.  A  kind  of  insti 
tutional  sanctity  seemed  to  hedge  it  round 
about,  so  that  it  spoke  with  the  thunder  of 
authority — and  here  was  the  Press  quite  un 
able  to  pay  the  expressman  seven  dollars  and 
a  half!  I  think  I  must  have  entertained  much 
the  same  view  that  Captain  Doane  so  delights 
to  express  upon  any  favourable  (or  unfavour 
able)  public  occasion. 

How  often  have  I  heard  him  since  that 
memorable  time!  He  does  it  very  impres 
sively,  with  his  right  thumb  hooked  into  the 
buttons  of  his  vest,  his  beautiful  shaggy  head 
thrown  well  back,  and  his  somewhat  shabby 
frock  coat  drawn  up  on  the  left  side — for  it  is 


28  HEMPFIELD 

his  left  hand  that  he  holds  so  tremulously 
and  impressively  aloft— that  mighty  director  of 
public  opinion,  that  repository  of  freedom, 
that  palladium  of  democracy,  that  ruler  of  the 
nation.  Whenever  I  hear  the  Captain,  I  can 
never  think  of  the  press  without  trembling  a 
little  at  its  incredible  prescience,  without  be 
ing  awed  by  the  way  in  which  it  soaks  up  the 
life  of  the  community  and,  having  held  it  for  a 
moment  in  solution,  distributes  it — I  quote 
the  Captain—  "like  dew"  (sometimes  manna) 
"upon  the  populace,  iridescent  with  the  glories 
of  the  printed  word."  Nor  do  I  ever  hear 
him  these  days,  especially  in  his  moments  of 
biting  irony,  when  he  considers  those  "con- 
temners  of  the  Press"  (mostly  Democrats) 
who  never  tire  of  "nefarious  practices,"  with 
out  thinking  of  that  first  morning  I  spent  in  the 
printing-office — and  the  look  in  Anthy's  eyes. 

Events  after  the  departure  of  the  mild-eyed 
Bucky  moved  swiftly.  Anthy  walked  down 
the  room,  and  Fergus,  after  hesitating  for  a 
moment,  followed  her.  I  suppose  I  should 
have  departed  promptly,  but  I  couldn't — I 
simply  couldn't.  After  the  solitude  of  my 
farm  and  my  thoughts,  I  cannot  tell  how  fas 
cinating  I  found  these  stirring  events. 


I  STEP  INTO  THE  STORY  29 

The  little  drama  which  followed  was  all 
perfectly  clear  to  me,  though  I  heard  not  a 
word,  except  the  last  exclamation.  As  Fergus 
followed  Anthy,  he  drew  a  lean  tobacco  bag 
slowly  out  of  his  hip  pocket — and  thrust  it 
quickly  back  again,  hesitated,  then  spoke  to 
Anthy.  She  shook  her  head  vigorously,  and 
stood  up  very  straight  and  still.  Fergus's 
hand  went  back  to  his  pocket  again,  hesitated, 
plunged  in.  He  took  a  bill  from  the  lean  bag 
and  fumbled  it  in  his  hand.  Every  line  in 
Anthy's  firm  body  said  no.  She  looked  out  of 
the  window  expectantly.  Fergus's  looks  fol 
lowed  hers.  It  was  evident  that  they  both  ex 
pected  and  desired  something  very  much. 

'There  he  is  now!"  exclaimed  Anthy,  and 
that  was  the  exclamation  I  heard. 

He  didn't  come  in  crying  "Fudge!"  as  I 
half  expected,  but  it  was  none  the  less  a  dra 
matic  moment  for  me.  I  heard  the  prelimi 
nary  thump,  thump,  of  his  cane  on  the  porch. 
I  heard  him  clear  his  throat  stentoriously,  as 
was  his  custom,  and  then  the  Captain,  step 
ping  in,  looked  about  him  with  a  benignant 
eye. 

"Anthy,  Anthy,"  he  called.  "Where  are 
you,  Anthy?" 


30  HEMPFIELD 

"Here,  Uncle!  Glad  to  see  you.  The  in- 
sides  are  at  the  station,  and  we  need— 

"Anthy,"  interrupted  the  Captain,  impres 
sively  waving  his  hand,  "I  have  determined 
upon  one  thing." 

He  took  off  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and,  hav 
ing  with  some  determination  forced  the  cat 
from  the  editorial  chair,  sat  down.  There  was 
evidently  something  unusual  on  his  mind.  He 
sat  up  straight,  resting  one  hand,  which  was 
seen  to  hold  a  paper-covered  parcel,  upon 
the  edge  of  the  desk.  If  he  saw  me  at  all, 
he  gave  no  sign.  I  have  never  thought  he 
saw  me. 

"Anthy- 

He  paused  a  moment,  very  dignified.  An 
thy  said  nothing. 

"I  have  determined,"  he  continued,  "that 
we  must  economize." 

A  swift  flash  swept  over  Anthy's  expressive 
face,  whether  of  sympathy  or  amusement  I 
could  not  tell.  I  never  knew  a  time  in  Anthy's 
life,  even  when  the  heavy  world  rested  most 
heavily  upon  her  (except  once),  when  she  wasn't 
as  near  to  laughter  as  she  was  to  tears.  She 
had  the  God-given  grace  of  seeing  that  every 
serious  thing  in  life  has  a  humorous  side. 


I  STEP  INTO  THE  STORY  31 

'You're  right,  Uncle — especially  this  very 
morning  — 

'Yes,  Anthy,"  he  again  interrupted,  as 
though  he  couldn't  afford  to  be  diverted  by 
immediate  considerations.  'Yes,  we  must 
economize  sharply.  Times  are  not  what  they 
were  when  your  father  was  alive.  'Wealth 
accumulates  and  men  decay.'  The  coun 
try  press  is  being  strangled,  forced  to  the  wall 
by  the  brute  wealth  of  the  city.  The  march  of 
events— 

"Yes,  Uncle." 

He  stopped  in  the  midst  of  his  flight  and 
repeated : 

"We  must  economize — and  I've  begun!" 

He  said  it  with  great  dramatic  force,  but 
the  effect  on  Anthy  was  not  what  an  unpreju 
diced  observer  might  have  expected.  I  thought 
she  looked  a  bit  alarmed. 

The  Captain  cleared  his  throat,  and  said 
with  impressive  deliberation: 

"I've  given  up  smoking  cigars!" 

Anthy's  laugh  was  clear  and  strong. 

'You  have!"  she  exclaimed. 

"And  from  now  on,"  said  the  Captain,  still 
very  serious,  "I  shall  smoke  a  pipe." 

With  that  he  took  notice  for  the  first  time  of 


32  HEMPFIELD 

the  package  in  his  hand.  It  contained  a  case, 
which  he  opened  slowly. 

"Isn't  it  a  beauty?"  he  said,  holding  up  a 
new  briar  pipe. 

''Yes,"  she  replied  faintly;  "but,  Uncle,  how 
did  you  get  it  ?" 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"One  must  make  a  beginning,"  he  said; 
"economy  is  positively  necessary.  I  bought 
it." 

"Uncle,  you  didn't  spend  Frank  Toby's  sub 
scription  for  a  pipe!" 

The  Captain  looked  a  little  offended. 

"Anthy,  it  was  a  bargain.  It  was  marked 
down  from  two  dollars." 

Anthy  turned  partly  aside,  quite  unconscious 
of  either  Fergus  or  me,  and  such  a  look  of  dis 
couragement  and  distress  swept  over  her  face 
as  I  cannot  describe.  But  it  was  only  for  an 
instant.  The  Captain  was  still  holding  up  the 
pipe  for  her  admiration.  She  laid  her  hand 
again  quickly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  It  is  a  beauty,"  she  said. 

"I  knew  you'd  like  it,"  exclaimed  the  Cap 
tain  benevolently.  "When  I  saw  it  in  the 
window  I  said,  'Anthy'd  like  that  pipe.'  I 
knew  it.  So  I  bought  it." 


I  STEP  INTO  THE  STORY  33 

"But,  Uncle — how  we  did  need  the  money 
this  morning  of  all  mornings!  The  insides  are 
here,  we  must  have  them  — 

"So  I  say,"  said  the  Captain  with  great 
firmness,  "we  must  economize  sharply.  And 
I've  begun.  Let's  all  get  down  now  to  work. 
Fergus,  I've  answered  the  fellow  on  the  Ster 
ling  Democrat.  I've  left  nothing  of  him  at  ail- 
not  a  pinfeather." 

With  that  he  took  a  new  pouch  of  tobacco 
from  his  pocket,  and  began  to  fill  his  new 
pipe.  The  cat  rubbed  familiarly  against  his 
leg. 

Silence  in  the  office,  interrupted  a  moment 
later  by  the  second  appearance  of  that  villain, 
Bucky  Penrose,  who  thrust  his  head  in  the 
door  and  called  out: 

"Lend  a  hand,  Fergus.     I  got  the  insides." 

Fergus  looked  at  Anthy.  She  had  grown 
pale. 

"Go  on,  Fergus." 

It  is  this  way  with  me,  that  often  I  think  of 
the  great  thing  to  do  after  I  get  home  and  into 
bed.  But  it  came  to  me  suddenly — an  in 
spiration  that  made  me  a  little  dizzy  for  a 
moment  -and  I  stepped  into  the  story. 

"I   forgot   a   part   of  my   errand,"   I   said, 


34  HEMPFIELD 

"when  we  were — interrupted.  I  want  to 
subscribe  to  your  paper,  right  away." 

Anthy  looked  at  me  keenly  for  a  moment, 
her  colour  slowly  rising. 

"Whom  shall  we  send  it  to?"  she  asked  in 
the  dryest,  most  businesslike  voice,  as  though 
subscriptions  were  flowing  in  all  the  time. 

For  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  think  of  any 
body.  I  never  was  more  at  sea  in  my  life.  I 
don't  know  yet  how  it  occurred  to  me,  but  I 
said,  suddenly,  with  great  relief: 

"Why,  send  it  to  Doctor  McAlway." 

"He  is  already  a  subscriber,  one  of  our 
oldest,"  she  responded  crisply. 

We  stood  there,  looking  at  each  other  des 
perately. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "send  it — send  it  to  my 
uncle — in  California." 

At  that  Anthy  laughed;  we  both  laughed. 
But  she  was  evidently  very  determined. 

"I  appreciate — I  know,"  she  began,  "but  I 
can't- 

"See  here,"  I  said  severely.  ''You're  in  the 
newspaper  business,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

'Then  I  propose  to  subscribe  for  your  paper. 
I  demand  my  rights.  And  besides"  —it  came 


I  STEP  INTO  THE  STORY  35 

to  me  with  sudden  inspiration—  "I  must  have, 
immediately,  a  thousand  envelopes  with  my 
name  printed  in  the  corner." 

With  that  I  drew  my  pocketbook  quickly 
from  my  pocket  and  handed  her  a  bill.  She 
took  it  doubtfully — but  at  that  moment  there 
was  a  tremendous  bump  on  the  porch,  and  the 
voice  of  Fergus  shouting  directions.  When  the 
two  men  came  in  with  their  burden  I  was 
studying  a  fire  insurance  advertisement  on  the 
wall,  and  Anthy  was  stepping  confidently 
toward  the  door. 

I  wish  I  could  picture  the  look  on  Fergus's 
face  when  Bucky  presented  his  book  and  Anthy 
gave  him  a  bill  requiring  change.  Fergus 
stood  rubbing  one  finger  behind  his  ear — a  sign 
that  there  were  things  in  the  universe  that 
puzzled  him. 

While  these  thrilling  events  and  hairbreadth 
escapes  had  been  taking  place,  while  the 
doomed  Star  was  being  saved  to  twinkle 
for  another  week,  the  all-unconscious  Captain 
had  been  sitting  at  his  desk  rumbling  and 
grumbling  as  he  opened  the  exchanges.  This 
was  an  occupation  he  affected  greatly  to  de 
spise,  but  which  he  would  not  have  given 
over  for  the  world.  By  the  time  he  had  read 


36  HEMPFIELD 

about  a  dozen  of  his  esteemed  contemporaries 
he  was  usually  in  a  condition  in  which  he 
could,  as  he  himself  put  it,  "wield  a  pungent 
pen."  He  had  arrived  at  that  nefarious  sheet, 
the  Sterling  Democrat,  and  was  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  reading  the  utterly  preposterous 
lucubrations  of  Brother  Kendrick,  which  he 
always  saved  to  the  last  to  give  a  final  fillip  to 
his  spirits.  Suddenly  he  dashed  the  paper 
aside,  sat  up  straight,  and  cried  out  with  tre 
mendous  vigour: 

"  T?      J          I " 

fudge! 

It  was  glorious;  it  came  quite  up  to  my 
highest  expectations.  But  somehow,  at  that 
moment,  it  was  enough  for  me  to  see  and 
hear  the  Captain,  without  getting  any  better 
acquainted.  I  wasn't  sure,  indeed,  that  I 
cared  to  know  him  at  all.  I  didn't  like  his  new 
pipe — which  shows  how  little  I  then  under 
stood  the  Captain! 

As  I  was  going  out,  for  even  the  most  in 
teresting  incidents  must  have  an  end,  I  stepped 
over  and  said  to  Anthv  in  a  low  voice: 

mf 

"I'll  see  that  you  get  the  address  of — my 
uncle  in  California. " 


CHAPTER  III 

ANTHY 

IT  IS  one  of  the  strange  things  in  our  lives- 
interesting,  too — what  tricks  our  early 
memories  play  us.  What  castles  in  fairyland 
they  build  for  us,  what  never-never  ships  they 
send  to  sea!  To  a  single  flaming  incident 
imprinted  upon  our  consciousness  by  the  swift 
shutter  of  the  soul  of  youth  they  add  a  little  of 
that-which-we-have-heard-told,  spice  it  with 
a  bit  of  that-which-would-be-beautiful-if-it- 
could-have-happened,  and  throw  in  a  rosy 

37 


38  HEMPFIELD 

dream  or  two — and  the  compound,  well 
warmed  in  the  fecund  soil  of  the  childish 
imagination,  becomes  far  more  real  and  at 
tractive  to  us  than  the  drab  incidents  of  our 
grown-up  yesterdays. 

Long  afterward,  when  we  had  become  much 
better  acquainted,  Anthy  told  me  one  day, 
very  quietly,  of  the  greatest  memory  of  her 
childhood.  It  was  of  something  that  never 
could  have  happened  at  all;  and  yet,  to  Anthy, 
it  was  one  of  the  treasured  realities  of  her  life,  a 
memory  to  live  by. 

She  was  standing  at  the  bedside  of  her 
mother.  She  remembered,  she  said,  exactly 
how  her  mother  looked — her  delicate,  girlish 
face,  the  big  clear  eyes,  the  wavy  hair  all  loose 
on  the  pillow.  They  had  just  placed  the 
child  in  her  arms,  and  she  was  drawing  the 
small  bundle  close  up  to  her,  and  looking  down 
at  it,  and  crying.  It  was  the  crying  that 
Anthy  remembered  the  best  of  all. 

And  the  child  that  Anthy  saw  so  clearly  was 
Anthy  herself —and  this  was  the  only  memory 
she  ever  had  of  her  mother.  That  poor  lady, 
perhaps  a  little  tired  of  a  world  too  big  and 
harsh  for  her,  and  disappointed  that  her  child 
was  not  a  son  whom  she  could  name  Anthony, 


ANTHY  39 

after  its  father,  tarried  only  a  week  after  Anthy 
was  born. 

'You  see,"  said  Anthy,  "I  was  intended  to 
be  a  boy." 

After  that,  Anthy  remembered  a  little  girl,  a 
very  lonely  little  girl,  sitting  at  a  certain  place 
on  the  third  step  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 
There  were  curious  urns  filled  with  flowers  on 
the  wall  paper,  and  her  two  friends,  Richard 
and  Rachel,  came  out  of  the  wall  near  the 
dining-room  door  and  looked  through  the  stair 
spindles  at  her.  Rachel  had  lovely  curly  hair 
and  Richard  wore  shiny  brass  buttons  on  his 
jacket,  and  made  faces.  She  used  to  whisper 
to  them  between  the  spindles,  and  whenever 
any  one  came  they  went  back  quickly  through 
the  wall.  She  liked  Rachel  better  than 
Richard. 

There  was  a  time  later  when  her  hero  was 
Ivanhoe — just  the  name,  not  the  man  in  the 
book.  She  read  a  great  deal  there  in  the  lonely 
house,  and  her  taste  in  those  years  ran  to  the 
gloomy  and  mysterious.  The  early  chapters 
of  an  old  book  called  "Wuthering  Heights" 
thrilled  her  with  fascinated  interest,  and  she 
delighted  in  "Peter  Ibbetson."  Sometimes 
she  would  take  down  the  volume  of  Tennyson 


4o  HEMPFIELD 

in  her  father's  library  and,  if  the  light  was  low, 
read  aloud : 


I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood. 


* 


A  very  lonely  little  girl,  sitting  at  a  certain  place  on  the  third 
step  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs 


ANTHY  41 

As  she  read,  she  would  thrill  with  delicious 
horror. 

Then  she  went  away  to  school,  not  knowing 
in  the  least  how  much  her  father  missed  her; 
and  when  she  came  back,  the  home  of  her  girl 
hood  seemed  dreadfully  shabby,  small,  old- 
fashioned,  and  she  did  not  like  the  iron  deer  on 
the  lawn  nor  the  cabinet  of  specimens  in  the 
corner  of  the  parlour. 

Anthy  did  not  tell  me  all  these  things  at 
one  time,  and  some  she  never  told  me  at  all. 
They  were  the  slow  gatherings  of  many  rich 
friendships  in  Hempfield,  and  a  few  things 
afterward  came  to  me,  inadvertently,  from 
Nort.  I  shall  venture  often  in  this  narrative 
to  assume  the  omniscience  of  foreknowledge: 
for  it  is  one  of  the  beautiful  things  to  me,  as  I 
write,  that  I  can  look  at  those  early  hard  days 
in  the  printing-office  through  the  golden  haze 
of  later  events. 

It  was  in  the  vacations  from  college  that 
Anthy  began  really  to  know  her  father,  who 
was,  in  his  way,  a  rather  remarkable  man. 
Although  I  never  knew  him  well  personally,  I 
remember  seeing  him  often  in  the  town  roads 
during  the  latter  years  of  his  life.  He  was 
always  in  a  hurry,  always  looked  a  little  tired, 


42 


HEMPFIELD 


ANTHY  43 

always  wore  his  winter  hat  too  late  in  the 

K> 

spring,  and  his  straw  hat  too  late  in  the  fall. 

Anthy  remembered  her  father  as  forever 
writing  on  bits  of  yellow  paper:  "John  Gor 
man  lost  a  valuable  pig  last  Wednesday";  or 
"  Mrs.  Bertha  Hopkins  is  visiting  her  daughter 
in  Arnoville." 

Anthy  was  secretly  ashamed  of  this  unend 
ing  writing  of  local  events,  just  as  she  was 
ashamed  of  the  round  bald  spot  on  her  father's 
head,  and  of  the  goloshes  which  he  wore  in 
winter.  And  yet,  in  some  curious  deep  way— 
for  love  struggles  in  youth  to  harmonize  the 
real  with  the  ideal — these  things  of  which  she 
was  ashamed  gave  her  a  sort  of  fierce  pride  in 
him,  a  tenderness  for  him,  a  wish  to  defend 
him.  While  she  admired  her  handsome  uncle, 
the  Captain,  it  was  her  father  whom  she  loved 
with  all  the  devotion  of  her  young  soul. 

He  knew  everybody,  or  nearly  everybody, 
in  the  town,  and  treated  every  one,  even  his 
best  friends,  with  a  kind  of  ironical  regard. 
He  knew  life  well — all  of  it — and  was  rarely 
deceived  by  pretence  or  surprised  b)t  evil. 
Sometimes,  I  think,  he  armoured  himself  un 
necessarily  against  goodness,  lest  he  be  de 
ceived;  but  once  having  accepted  a  man,  his 


44  HEMPFIELD 

loyalty  was  unswerving.  He  believed,  as  he 
often  said,  that  the  big  things  in  life  are  the 
little  things,  and  it  was  his  idea  of  a  country 
newspaper  that  it  should  be  crowded  with  all 
the  little  things  possible. 

"What's  the  protective  tariff  or  the  Philip 
pine  question  to  Nat  Halstead  compared  with 
the  price  of  potatoes?"  he  would  ask. 

He  was  not  at  all  proud,  for  if  he  could  not 
get  his  pay  for  his  newspaper  in  cash  he  would 
take  a  ham,  or  a  cord  of  wood,  a  champion 
squash,  or  a  packet  of  circus  tickets.  One  of 
Anthy's  early  memories  was  of  an  odd  assort 
ment  of  shoes  which  he  had  accepted  in  settle 
ment  of  an  advertising  account.  They  never 
quite  fitted  any  one. 

As  he  grew  older  he  liked  to  talk  with  Anthy 
about  his  business,  as  though  she  were  a  part 
ner;  he  liked  especially  to  have  her  in  the  office 
helping  him,  and  he  was  always  ready  with  a 
whimsical  or  wise  comment  on  the  people  of 
the  town.  He  also  enjoyed  making  sly  jokes 
about  his  older  brother,  the  Captain,  and  es 
pecially  about  the  Captain's  thundering  edi 
torials  (which  Anthy  for  a  long  time  secretly 
admired,  wishing  her  father  had  written  them). 

"Now,  Anthy,"  he  would  say,  "don't  dis- 


ANTHY  45 

turb  your  Uncle  Newt;  he's  saving  the  nation," 
or  "Pass  this  pamphlet  along  to  your  uncle; 
it  will  come  in  handy  when  he  gets  ready  to 
regulate  the  railroads." 

He  was  not  an  emotional  man,  at  least  to 
outward  view;  but  once,  on  a  Memorial  Day, 
while  the  old  soldiers  were  marching  past  the 
printing-office  on  their  way  to  the  cemetery, 
Anthy  saw  him  standing  by  the  window  in  his 
long  apron,  a  composing  stick  in  his  hand,  with 
the  tears  rolling  unheeded  down  his  face. 

I  think  sometimes  we  do  not  yet  appreciate 
the  influence  of  that  great  burst  of  idealism, 
which  was  the  Civil  War,  upon  the  lives  of  the 
men  of  that  generation,  nor  the  place  which 
Lincoln  played  in  moulding  the  characters  of 
his  time.  Men  who,  even  as  boys,  passed 
through  the  fire  of  that  great  time  and  learned 
to  suffer  with  Lincoln,  could  never  again  be 
quite  small.  Although  Anthy's  father  had  not 
been  a  soldier — he  was  too  young  at  the  time 
-the  most  impressionable  years  of  his  boy 
hood  were  saturated  with  stories  from  the 
front,  with  the  sight  of  soldiers  marching  forth 
to  war,  his  own  older  brother,  the  Captain, 
among  them,  the  sound  of  martial  drums  and 
fifes,  and  the  heroic  figures  of  wan  and  wounded 


46  HEMPFIELD 

men  who  returned  with  empty  sleeves  or  miss 
ing  legs.  He  never  forgot  the  thrill  that  came 
with  the  news  of  Lincoln's  assassination. 

There  was  a  portrait  of  Lincoln  over  the 
cases  at  the  office,  and  another  over  the  mantel 
in  the  dining-room — the  one  that  played  so 
important  a  part,  afterward,  in  Anthy's  life. 

Sometimes,  on  a  rainy  Sunday  afternoon, 
Anthy's  father  would  get  down  a  certain  vol 
ume  from  the  cases,  and  read  Tom  Taylor's 
tribute  to  the  dead  Lincoln.  She  could  recall 
vividly  the  intonation  of  his  voice  as  he  read 
the  lines,  and  she  knew  just  where  he  would 
falter  and  have  to  clear  his  throat: 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier; 

You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 
Broad  for  the  self-complaisant  British  sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bristling  hair, 
His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 

His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  or  art  to  please     .... 

When  he  had  finished  reading,  he  would  take 
off  his  spectacles  and  wipe  them,  and  say  to 
Anthy: 


ANTHY  47 

''Lincoln  was  the  greatest  man  this  coun 
try  has  ever  produced." 

He  was  a  curious  combination  of  hard- 
headedness,  of  ironical  wisdom,  and  of  humour, 
and  somewhere,  hidden  deep  within,  of  molten 
sentiment.  He  was  a  regular  Yankee. 

One  night  he  got  more  than  ordinarily  tired, 
and  just  stopped.  They  found  him  in  bed 
the  next  morning,  his  legs  drawn  up  under 
the  coverlet,  a  volume  of  Don  Quixote  open  on 
his  knees,  his  empty  pipe  fallen  from  his  lips, 
the  lamp  dying  out  on  a  table  near  him.  At 
his  elbow  were  two  of  the  inevitable  yellow 
slips: 

Squire  Baker  of  Arnoville  was  a  visitor  at  Lawyer 
Perkins's  on  Monday. 

Apples  stopped  yesterday  at  Banks's  store  at  30  cents 
a  peck — on  their  way  up  (adv). 

He  never  knew  what  a  hero  he  was:  he  had 
made  a  living  for  thirty  years  out  of  a  country 
newspaper. 

Anthy  came  home  from  college  to  the  for 
lorn  and  empty  and  ugly  house •—  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  end  of  the  world  had  come. 
This  period  of  loneliness  made  a  deep  impres- 


48  HEMPFIELD 

sion  upon  her  later  years.  When  at  last  she 
could  bear  to  open  the  envelope  labelled:  "To 
Anthy — in  case  of  my  death,"  she  found  this 
letter: 

DEAR  ANTHY:  I  am  leaving  the  Star  to  you.  There  is 
nothing  else  except  the  homestead — and  the  debts.  Do 
what  you  like  with  all  of  them — but  look  after  your 
Uncle  Newt. 

Now,  Anthy's  earliest  memories  were  bound 
up  with  the  printing-office.  There  was  never 
a  time  that  she  did  not  know  the  smell  of 
printer's  ink.  As  a  child  she  had  delighted  to 
tip  over  the  big  basket  and  play  with  the  paper 
ribbons  from  the  cutting  machine.  Later,  she 
had  helped  on  press  days  to  fold  and  label  the 
papers.  She  was  early  a  past  master  in  the 
art  of  making  paste,  and  she  knew  better  than 
any  one  else  the  temperamental  eccentricities 
of  the  old-fashioned  Dick  labeller.  She  could 
set  type  (passably)  and  run  the  hand  press.  But 
as  for  taking  upon  herself  the  activities  of 
her  tireless  father — who  was  at  once  editor, 
publisher,  compositor,  pressman,  advertising 
solicitor,  and  father  confessor  for  the  com 
munity  of  Hempfield — she  could  not  do  it. 
There  is  only  a  genius  here  and  there  who  can 


ANTHY  49 

fill  the  high  and  difficult  position  of  country 
editor. 

The  responsibility,  therefore,  fell  upon  the 
Captain,  who  for  so  many  years  had  been  the 
titular  and  ornamental  editor  of  the  Star.  It 
was  the  Captain  who  wrote  the  editorials,  the 
obituaries,  and  the  "write-ups,"  who  attended 
the  political  conventions,  and  was  always  much 
in  demand  for  speeches  at  the  Fourth  of  July 
celebrations. 

But,  strangely  enough,  although  the  Star 
editorials  sparkled  with  undimmed  lustre, 
although  the  obituaries  were  even  longer  and 
more  wonderful  than  ever  before — so  long  as  to 
crowd  out  some  of  the  items  about  Johnny 
Gorman's  pigs  and  Mrs.  Hopkins's  visits  to  her 
sister,  although  the  fine  old  Captain  worked 
harder  than  ever,  the  light  of  the  luminary  of 
Hempfield  grew  steadily  dimmer.  Fergus  saw 
it  early  and  it  distressed  his  Scotch  soul.  Anthy 
felt  it,  and  soon  the  whole  town  knew  of  the 
decay  of  the  once  thrifty  institution  in  the  lit 
tle  old  printing-office  back  from  the  street. 
Brother  Kendrick,  of  that  nefarious  rag,  the 
Sterling  Democrat,  even  dared  to  respond  to 
one  of  the  Captain's  most  powerful  and  pungent 
editorials  with  a  witticism  in  which  he  referred 


50  HEMPFIELD 

to  the  Weakly  Star  of  Hempfield,  and  printed 
"Weakly"  in  capital  letters  that  no  one  might 
miss  his  joke. 

It  was  at  this  low  stage  in  the  orbit  of  the 
Star  that  I  came  first  to  the  printing-office, 
trying  to  discover  the  man  who  could  shout 
"Fudge"  with  such  fine  enthusiasm — and 
found  myself,  quite  irresistibly,  hitching  my 
wagon  to  the  Star. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH 

IT  IS  only  with  difficulty  thus  far  in  my 
narrative  that  I  have  kept  Norton  Carr 
out  of  it.  When  you  come  to  know  him  you  will 
understand  why.  He  is  inseparably  bound  up 
with  every  memory  I  have  of  the  printing- 
office.  The  other  day,  when  I  was  describing 
my  first  visit  to  the  establishment  of  Doane  & 
Doane,  I  kept  seeing  the  figure  of  Nort  bending 
over  the  gasoline  engine.  I  kept  hearing  him 
whistle  in  the  infectious  low  monotone  he  had, 
and  when  I  spoke  of  the  printing  press  I  all  but 

si 


52  HEMPFIELD 

called  it  "Old  Harry"  (Nort  christened  the 
ancient  Hoe  press,  Old  Harry,  which  every  one 
adopted  as  being  an  appropriate  name).  I 
even  half  expected  to  have  him  break  out  in 
my  pages  with  one  of  his  absurd  remarks, 
when  I  knew  well  enough  that  he  had  no 
business  to  be  in  the  story  at  all.  He  hadn't 
come  yet,  and  Anthy  and  Fergus  and  the  old 
Captain  were  positively  the  only  ones  there. 

But  Nort,  however  impatient  he  may  be 
getting,  will  have  to  wait  even  a  little  while 
yet,  for  notable  events  were  to  occur  in  the 
printing-office  just  before  he  arrived,  without 
which,  indeed,  he  never  could  have  arrived  at 
all.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  ploughing  and 
harrowing  of  Ed  Smith,  painful  as  it  was  to  that 
ancient  and  sedate  institution,  the  Hempfield 
Star,  there  never  would  have  been  any  harvest 
for  Norton  Carr,  nor  for  me,  nor  for  Anthy. 
So  good  may  come  even  out  of  evil. 

As  I  narrate  these  preliminary  events,  how 
ever,  you  will  do  well  to  keep  in  your  thought  a 
picture  of  Nort  going  about  his  pleasures — I 
fear,  at  that  time,  somewhat  unsteadily — in 
the  great  city,  not  knowing  in  the  least  that 
chance,  assisted  by  a  troublesome  organ  within 
called  a  soul,  was  soon  to  deposit  him  in  the 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  53 

open  streets  of  a  town  he  had  never  heard  of  in 
all  his  life,  but  which  was  our  own  familiar 
town  of  Hempfield. 

The  thought  of  Nort  looking  rather  mistily 
down  the  common — he  was  standing  just  in 
front  of  the  Congregational  Church — and  ask 
ing,  "What  town  am  I  in,  anyhow?"  lingers 
in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  amusing  things  I 
have  known. 

Late  in  June  I  began  to  feel  distinctly  the 
premonitory  rumblings  and  grumblings  of  the 
storm  which  was  now  rapidly  gathering  around 
the  Star.  It  was  a  very  clever  Frenchman,  I 
believe — though  not  clever  enough  to  make  me 
remember  his  name — who,  upon  observing 
certain  disturbances  in  the  farther  reaches  of 
the  solar  system,  calculated  by  sheer  mathe 
matical  genius  that  there  was  an  enormous 
planet,  infinitely  distant  from  the  sun,  which 
nobody  had  yet  discovered. 

It  was  thus  by  certain  signs  of  commotion  in 
one  of  its  issues  that  I  recognized  a  portentous 
but  undiscovered  Neptune,  which  was  plainly 
disturbing  the  course  of  the  Star.  A  big  new 
advertisement  stared  at  me  from  the  middle  of 
the  first  page,  and  there  was  a  certain  crisp* 
quality  in  some  of  the  reading  notices — from 


54  HEMPFIELD 

which  the  letters  "adv"  had  been  suspiciously 
omitted — the  origin  of  which  I  could  not 
recognize.  The  second  week  the  change  was 
even  more  marked.  There  were  several  smart 
new  headings:  "Jots  and  Tittles  from  Little 
ton,"  I  remember,  was  one  of  them,  and  even 
the  sanctity  of  the  editorial  column  had  been 
invaded  with  an  extraordinary  production  quite 
foreign  to  the  Captain's  pen.  It  was  entitled : 

"All  Together  Now!     Boost  Hempfield!" 

I  can  scarcely  describe  how  I  was  affected  by 
these  changes;  but  I  should  have  realized  that 
any  man  bold  enough  to  hitch  his  wagon  to  a 
star  must  prepare  himself  for  a  swift  course 
through  the  skies,  and  not  take  it  amiss  if  he 
collides  occasionally  with  the  heavenly  bodies. 

I  think  it  was  secretly  amusing  to  Harriet 
during  the  weeks  that  followed  my  first  great 
visit  to  the  printing-office  to  watch  the  eager 
ness  with  which  I  awaited  the  postman  on  the 
publication  days  of  the  Star.  I  even  went  out 
sometimes  to  meet  him,  and  took  the  paper 
from  his  hand.  I  have  been  a  devoted  reader 
of  books  these  many  years,  but  I  think  I  have 
never  read  anything  with  sharper  interest  than 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  55 

I  now  began  to  read  the  Star.  I  picked  out 
the  various  items,  editorials,  reading  notices, 
and  the  like,  and  said  to  myself:  'That's  the 
old  Captain's  pungent  pen,"  or  "Anthy  must 
have  written  that,"  or  "I  warrant  the  Scotch 
man,  Fergus,  had  a  ringer  in  that  pie."  As  I 
read  the  editorials  I  could  fairly  see  the  old 
Captain  at  his  littered  desk,  the  cat  rubbing 
against  his  leg,  the  canary  singing  in  the  cage 
above  him,  and  his  head  bent  low  as  he  wrote. 
And  I  was  disturbed  beyond  measure  by  the 
signs  of  an  unknown  hand  at  work  upon  the 
Star. 

"I  thought,  David,  you  did  not  care  for 
country  newspapers,"  said  my  sister. 

She  wore  that  comfortably  superior  smile 
which  becomes  her  so  well.  The  fact  is,  she 
is  superior. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "you  may  talk  all  you  like 
about  Browning  and  Carlyle— 

"I  have  not,"  said  my  sister,  "referred  to 
Browning  or  Carlyle." 

'You  may  talk  all  you  like"  —I  disdained 
her  pointed  interruption—  "but  for  downright 
human  nature  here  in  the  country,  give  me  the 
Hempfield  Star." 

Once  during  these  weeks  I  paid  a  short  ok- 


56  HEMPFIELD 

ligatory  visit  to  the  printing-office,  and  gave 
Anthy  the  name  of  my  uncle  in  California  and 
got  the  envelopes  that  had  been  printed  for 
me.  I  also  took  in  a  number  of  paragraphs 
relating  to  affairs  in  our  neighbourhood,  and 
told  Anthy  (only  I  did  not  call  her  Anthy  then) 
that  if  agreeable  I  would  contribute  occasion 
ally  to  the  Star.  She  seemed  exceedingly 
grateful,  and  I  liked  her  better  than  ever. 

I  also  had  a  characteristic  exchange  with 
Fergus,  in  which,  as  usual,  I  came  off  worsted. 
In  those  troublous  days  Fergus  was  the  toiling 
Atlas  upon  whose  wiry  shoulders  rested  the 
full  weight  of  that  heavenly  body.  He  set 
most  of  the  type,  distributed  it  again,  made  up 
the  forms,  inked  the  rollers,  printed  the  paper 
(for  the  most  part),  did  all  the  job  work  which 
Hempfield  afforded,  and  smoked  the  worst 
pipe  in  America. 

When  I  told  him  that  I  was  going  to  write 
regularly  for  the  Star  and  showed  him  the 
paragraphs  I  had  brought  in  (I  suspect  they 
were  rather  long)  this  was  his  remark: 

"Oh,  Lord,  more  writers!" 

It  was  on  this  occasion,  too,  that  I  really 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Captain.  He 
was  in  the  best  of  spirits.  He  told  me  how  he 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  57 

had  beaten  the  rebels  at  Antietam.  I  enjoyed 
it  all  very  much,  and  decided  that  for  the  time 
being  I  would  suspend  judgment  on  the  pipe 
incident. 

One  day  I  reached  the  point  where  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  So  I  hitched  up  the  mare 
and  drove  to  town.  All  the  way  along  the 
road  I  tried  to  imagine  what  had  taken  place 
in  the  printing-office. 

I  thought  with  a  sinking  heart  that  the 
paper  might  have  been  sold,  and  that  my  new 
friends  would  go  away.  I  thought  that  Anthy 
might  be  carrying  out  some  new  and  vigorous 
plan  of  reconstruction,  only  somehow  I  could 
not  feel  Anthy's  hand  in  the  changes  I  had  seen. 

It  was  all  very  vivid  to  me;  I  had,  indeed,  a 
feeling,  that  afterward  became  familiar  enough, 
that  the  Star  was  a  living  being,  struggling, 
hoping,  suffering,  like  one  of  us.  In  truth,  it 
was  just  that. 

No  sooner  had  I  turned  in  at  the  gate  than 
I  perceived  that  some  mysterious  and  revolu 
tionary  force  had  really  been  at  work.  The 
gate  itself  had  acquired  two  hinges  where  one 
had  been  quite  sufficient  before,  and  inside  the 
office — what  a  change  was  there!  It  was  not 
so  much  in  actual  rearrangement,  though  the 


58  HEMPFIELD 

editorial  desk  looked  barren  and  windswept; 
it  was  rather  in  the  general  atmosphere  of  the 
place.  Even  Tom,  the  cat,  showed  it:  when  I 
came  in  at  the  door  he  went  out  through  the 
window.  He  was  scared !  No  more  would  he 
curl  himself  contentedly  to  sleep  in  editorial 
chairs;  no  more  make  his  bed  in  the  office 
wastebasket.  Though  it  was  still  early  in 
the  morning,  Fergus  was  not  reading  "Tom 
Sawyer."  No,  Fergus  was  hard  at  work, 
and  didn't  even  look  around  when  I  came 
in. 

Anthy  was  there,  too,  in  her  long  crisp  ging 
ham  apron,  which  I  always  thought  so  well 
became  her.  She  had  just  put  down  her  com 
posing  stick,  and  was  standing  quite  silent, 
with  a  curious  air  of  absorption  (which  I  did 
not  then  understand),  before  the  dingy  por 
trait  of  Lincoln  on  the  wall  just  over  the  cases. 
On  her  desk,  not  far  away,  a  book  lay  open.  I 
saw  it  later:  it  was  Rand's  "Modern  Classical 
Philosophers."  It  represented  Anthy's  last 
struggling  effort  to  keep  on  with  her  college 
work.  In  spite  of  all  the  difficulties  and  dis 
tractions  of  the  printing-office,  she  had  never 
quite  given  up  the  hope  that  some  day  she 
might  be  able  to  go  back  and  graduate.  It 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  59 

had  been  her  fondest  desire,  the  deepest  pur 
pose  of  her  heart. 

As  she  glanced  quickly  around  at  me  I  sur 
prised  on  her  face  a  curious  look.  How  shall 
I  describe  it? — a  look  of  exaltation,  and  of 
anxiety,  too,  I  thought.  But  it  passed  like  a 
flash,  and  she  gave  me  a  smile  of  friendly  rec 
ognition,  and  stepped  toward  me  with  the 
frank  and  outright  way  she  had.  It  gave  me  a 
curious  deep  thrill,  not,  I  think,  because  she 
was  a  woman,  a  girl,  and  so  very  good  to  look 
upon,  but  because  I  suddenly  saw  her,  the 
very  spirit  of  her,  as  a  fine,  brave  human  be 
ing,  fighting  one  of  the  hard  and  bitter  fights 
of  our  common  life.  I  do  not  pretend  to  know 
very  much  about  women  in  general,  and  I 
think  perhaps  there  is  some  truth  in  one  of 
Nort's  remarks,  made  long  afterward : 

"  David's  idea  of  generalizing  about  women," 
said  that  young  upstart,  "is  to  talk  about 
Anthy  without  mentioning  her  name." 

Is  yours  any  different,  Nort? — or  yours? 

Yes,  I  think  it  is  true;  and  this  I  know  be 
cause  I  know  Anthy,  that,  however  beautiful 
and  charming  a  woman  may  be,  as  a  woman, 
that  which  finally  rings  all  the  bells  in  the 
chambers  of  the  souls  of  men  are  those  quali- 


6o  HEMPFIELD 

ties  which  are  above  and  beyond  womanly 
charm,  which  are  universal  and  human:  as 
that  she  is  brave,  or  simple,  or  noble  in  spirit. 

That  Anthy  was  deeply  troubled  on  that 
summer  morning  I  saw  plainly  when  the  Cap 
tain  came,  in  the  keen  glance  she  gave  him. 
He,  too,  seemed  somehow  changed,  so  unlike 
himself  as  to  be  almost  gloomy.  He  gave  me 
a  sepulchral,  "Good  morning,  sir,"  and  sat 
down  at  his  desk  without  even  lighting  his 
pipe. 

Something  tremendous,  I  could  feel,  was 
taking  place  there  in  the  printing-office,  and  I 
said  to  Anthy — we  had  been  talking  about  the 
paragraphs  I  brought  in: 

"What's  been  happening  to  the  Star  since  I 
was  here  before?" 

''  You've  discovered  it,  too!"  she  said  with  a 
whimsical  smile.  "Well,  we're  just  now  in 
process  of  being  modernized."  At  this  I  heard 
Fergus  snort  behind  me. 

"Bein'  busted,  you  mean,"  said  he. 

Fergus,  besides  being  temperamentally  un 
able  to  contain  his  opinions,  had  been  so  long 
the  prop  of  the  mechanical  fortunes  of  the 
Star  that  he  was  a  privileged  character. 

"I  knew  something  was  the  matter,"  I  said. 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  61 

"As  I  was  coming  in  I  felt  like  saying,  'Fee, 
fie,  fo,  fum,  I  smell  the  blood  of  an  English 


man.' 


"  Plain  Yankee  this  time,"  said  Fergus. 

"Now,  Fergus!"  exclaimed  Anthy  severely. 
'You  see,"  she  continued,  "we  positively 
had  to  do  something.  The  paper  has  been 
going  downhill  ever  since  my  father's  death. 
Father  knew  how  to  make  it  pay,  even  with 
half  the  families  in  town  taking  the  cheap  city 
dailies.  But  times  are  changing,  and  we've 
got  to  modernize  or  perish." 

While  she  spoke  with  conviction,  her  words 
lacked  enthusiasm,  and  they  had,  moreover, 
a  certain  cut-and-dried  sound.  'Times  are 
changing.  Modernize  or  perish!" 

Anthy  did  not  know  it,  of  course,  but  she 
was  living  at  the  psychological  moment  in  our 
history  when  the  whole  country  was  turning 
for  salvation  to  that  finished  product,  that 
perfect  flower,  of  our  institutions,  the  Practical 
Business  Man.  Was  a  city  sick,  or  a  church 
declining  in  its  membership,  or  a  college  suffer 
ing  from  slow  starvation,  or  a  newspaper  down 
with  neurasthenia,  why,  call  in  a  Practical 
Business  Man.  Let  him  administer  up-to- 
date  remedies;  let  him  hustle,  push,  advertise. 


62  HEMPFIELD 

It  was  thus,  as  an  example  of  what  the  his 
torian  loves  to  call  "remote  causes,"  that  Mr. 
Ed  Smith  came  to  Hempfield  and  the  Star. 
He  was  a  graduate  of  small-town  journalism  in 
its  most  progressive  guises,  and  if  any  one  was 
ever  entitled  to  the  degree  of  P.  B.  M.  cum 
laude,  it  was  Ed  Smith. 

He  had  come  at  Anthy's  call — after  having 
made  certain  eminently  sound  and  satisfying 
financial  arrangements.  When  it  came  finally 
to  the  issue,  Anthy  had  seen  that  the  only 
alternative  to  the  extinction  of  the  Star  was 
some  desperate  and  drastic  remedy.  And  Ed 
Smith  was  that  desperate  and  drastic  remedy. 

"I  felt,"  she  said  to  me,  "that  I  must  do 
everything  I  could  to  keep  the  Star  alive. 
My  father  devoted  all  his  life  to  it,  and  then, 
there  was  Uncle  Newt — how  could  Uncle  Newt 
live  without  a  newspaper?" 

I  did  not  know  until  long  afterward  what  the 
sacrifice  had  meant  to  Anthy.  It  meant  not 
only  a  surrender  of  all  her  immediate  hopes  of 
completing  her  college  work,  but  she  was  com 
pelled  to  risk  everything  she  had.  First,  she 
had  borrowed  all  the  money  she  could  raise  on 
the  old  home,  and  with  this  she  paid  off  the 
accumulated  debts  of  the  Star.  With  the 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  63 

remainder,  which  Ed  Smith  spoke  of  as  Work 
ing  Capital,  she  plunged  into  the  unknown  and 
venturesome  seas  of  modernized  journalism. 

She  had  not  gone  to  these  lengths,  however, 
without  the  advice  of  old  Judge  Fendall  of 
Hempfield,  one  of  her  father's  close  friends, 
and  a  man  I  have  long  admired  at  a  distance,  a 
fine,  sound  old  gentleman,  with  a  vast  respect 
for  business  and  business  men.  Besides  this, 
Anthy  had  known  Ed  for  several  years;  he  had 
called  on  her  father,  had,  indeed,  called  on 
her. 

It  was  bitter  business  for  the  old  Captain  to 
find  himself,  after  so  many  glorious  years, 
fallen  upon  such  evil  days.  I  have  always 
been  amused  by  the  thought  of  the  first  meet 
ing  between  Ed  Smith  and  the  Captain,  as 
reported  afterward  by  Fergus  (with  grim  joy). 

"Do  you  know,"  Ed  asked  the  Captain, 
"the  motto  that  I'd  print  on  that  door?" 

The  Captain  didn't. 

"Push,"  said  he  dramatically;  "that's  my 
motto." 

I  can  see  the  old  Captain  drawing  himself  up 
to  his  full  stature  (he  was  about  once  and  a  half 
Ed's  size). 

"Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "we  need  no  such  sign  on 


64  HEMPFIELD 

our  door.  Our  door  has  stood  wide  open  to  our 
friends,  sir,  for  thirty  years." 

When  the  old  Captain  began  to  be  ex 
cessively  polite,  and  to  address  a  man  as  "sir," 
he  who  was  wise  sought  shelter.  It  was  the  old 
Antietam  spirit  boiling  within  him.  But  Ed 
Smith  blithely  pursued  his  way,  full  of  con 
fidence  in  himself  and  in  the  god  he  worshipped, 
and  it  was  one  of  Anthy's  real  triumphs,  in 
those  days  of  excursions  and  alarms,  that  she 
was  able  both  to  pacify  the  Captain  and  keep 
Fergus  down. 

Ed  came  in  that  morning  while  I  wTas  in 
the  printing-office,  a  cheerful,  quick-stepping, 
bold-eyed  young  fellow  with  a  small  neat 
moustache,  his  hat  slightly  tilted  back,  and  a 
toothbrush  in  his  vest  pocket. 

''You  are  the  man,"  he  said  to  me  briskly, 
"that  writes  the  stuff  about  the  Corwin 
neighbourhood." 

I  acknowledged  that  I  was. 

"Good  stuff,"  said  he,  "good  stuff!  Give 
us  more  of  it.  And  can't  you  drum  up  a  few 
new  subs  out  there  for  us?  Those  farmers 
around  you  ought  to  be  able  to  come  up  with 
the  ready  cash." 

To  save  my  life  I  couldn't  help  being  in- 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  65 

terested  in  him.  It  is  one  of  the  absurd 
contrarieties  of  human  nature  that  no  sooner 
do  we  decide  that  a  man  is  not  to  be  tolerated, 
that  he  is  a  villain,  than  we  begin  to  grow 
tremendously  interested  in  him.  We  want  to 
see  how  he  works.  And  the  more  deeply  we  get 
interested,  the  more  we  begin  to  see  how  human 
he  is,  in  what  a  lot  of  ways  he  is  exactly  like  us, 
or  like  some  of  the  friends  we  love  best — and 
usually  we  wind  up  by  liking  him,  too. 

It  was  so  with  Ed  Smith.  He  let  into  my 
life  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  of  new  and 
curious  points  of  view.  I  think  he  felt  my 
interest,  too,  and  as  I  now  look  back  upon  it,  I 
count  his  friendship  as  one  of  the  things  that 
helped  to  bind  me  more  closely  and  intimately 
to  the  Star.  While  he  was  not  at  all  sensitive, 
still  he  had  already  begun  to  feel  that  the 
glorious  progress  he  had  planned  for  the 
Star  (and  for  himself)  might  not  be  as  easy 
to  secure  as  he  had  anticipated.  He  wanted 
friends  in  the  office,  friends  of  those  he  desired 
to  be  friendly  with,  especially  Anthy.  Besides, 
I  was  helping  fill  his  columns  without  expense! 

I  had  a  good  lively  talk  with  him  that 
morning.  Before  I  had  known  him  fifteen 
minutes  he  had  expressed  his  opinion  that  the 


66  HEMPFIELD 

old  Captain  was  a  "back  number"  and  a  "do 
do,"  and  that  Fergus  was  a  good  fellow,  but  a 
"grouch."  He  confided  in  me  that  it  was  his 
principle,  "when  in  Rome  to  do  what  the 
Romans  do,"  but  I  wasn't  certain  whether 
this  consisted,  in  his  case,  of  being  a  dodo  or  a 
grouch.  He  was  full  of  wise  saws  and  modern 
instances,  a  regular  Ben  Franklin  for  wisdom 
in  the  art  of  getting  ahead. 

"When  the  cash  is  going  around,"  said  he, 
"  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  have  a  piece  of  it. 
Do  you?" 

He  told  me  circumstantially  all  the  reasons 
why  he  had  come  to  Hempfield. 

"I  could  have  made  a  lot  more  money  at 
Atterbury  or  Harlan  Centre;  they  were  both 
after  me;  but,  confidentially,  I  couldn't  resist 
the  lady." 

Well,  Ed  was  wonderfully  full  of  business. 
"  Rustling"  was  a  favourite  word  of  his,  and  he 
exemplified  it.  He  rustled.  He  got  in  several 
new  advertisements,  he  published  paid  reading 
notices  in  the  local  column,  a  thing  never  before 
done  on  the  Star.  He  persuaded  the  railroad 
company  to  print  its  time  tables  (at  "our 
regular  rates"),  with  the  insinuation  that  if 
they  didn't  he'd  .  .  .  and  he  formed  a 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  67 

daring  plan  for  organizing  a  Board  of  Trade  in 
Hempfield  to  boost  the  town  and  thus  secure 
both  news  and  advertising  for  the  Star.  Oh, 
he  made  things  lively! 

Some  men,  looking  out  upon  life,  get  its 
poetic  implications,  others  see  its  moral  signifi 
cance,  and  here  and  there  a  man  will  see  beauty 
in  everything;  but  to  Ed  all  views  of  life 
dissolved,  like  a  moving  picture,  into  dollars. 

At  first  Fergus,  that  thrifty  Scotch  soul,  was 
inclined  to  look  with  favour  upon  these  new 
activities,  for  they  promised  well  for  the  future 
prosperity  of  the  Star;  but  this  friendly  tol 
erance  was  blasted  as  the  result  of  a  curious 
incident.  Fergus  had  lived  for  several  years 
in  the  back  part  of  the  printing-office.  It  was 
a  small  but  comfortable  room  which  had  once 
been  the  kitchen  of  the  house.  In  the  course 
of  his  ravening  excursions,  seeking  what  he 
might  devour,  Ed  Smith  presently  fell  upon 
Fergus's  room.  Ed  never  could  understand 
the  enduring  solidity  of  ancient  institutions. 
Now  Fergus's  room,  I  am  prone  to  admit,  was 
not  all  that  might  have  been  desired,  Fergus 
being  a  bachelor;  but  he  was  proud  of  it,  and 
swept  it  out  once  a  month,  as  he  said,  whether 
it  needed  it  or  not.  Ed's  innocent  suggestion, 


68  HEMPFIELD 

therefore,  of  a  housecleaning  was  taken  by 
Fergus  as  a  deadly  affront.  He  did  not  com 
plain  to  Anthy,  though  he  told  me,  and  from 
that  moment  he  began  a  silent,  obstinate 
opposition  to  everything  that  Ed  was,  or 
thought,  or  did. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Anthy,  Ed  would  indeed 
have  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  But  Anthy  man 
aged  it,  and  in  those  days,  hard  as  they  were, 
she  was  finding  herself,  becoming  a  woman. 

"Fergus,"  she  said,  "we're  going  to  stand 
behind  Ed  Smith.  We've  got  to  work  it  out. 
It's  our  last  chance,  Fergus." 

So  Fergus  stuck  grimly  to  the  cases,  actually 
doing  more  work  than  he  had  done  before  in 
years;  Tom,  the  cat,  sat  warily  on  the  window 
sill,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  dive  to 
safety;  the  old  Captain  was  gloomy,  and  wrote 
fierce  editorials  on  the  Democratic  party  and 
on  all  "new-fangled  notions"  (especially  flying 
machines  and  woman  suffrage).  His  ironies 
about  the  "initiative,  referendum,  and  recall" 
were  particularly  vitriolic  during  this  period  of 
his  career.  Anthy  was  the  only  cheerful  per 
son  in  the  office. 

It  was  some  time  in  August,  in  the  midst  of 
these  stirring  events,  when  the  Star  was  de- 


ENTER  MR.  ED  SMITH  69 

porting  itself  in  such  an  unprecedented  manner, 
that  the  Captain  one  day  brought  in  what  was 
destined  to  be  one  of  the  most  famous  news 
items,  if  not  the  most  famous,  ever  published  in 
the  Star. 

I  was  there  at  the  time,  and  I  can  testify  that 
he  came  in  quite  unconcernedly,  though  there 
was  an  evident  look  of  disapproval  upon  his 
countenance.  It  was  thus  with  the  Captain, 
that  nothing  was  news  unless  it  stirred  him 
to  an  opinion.  An  earthquake  might  have 
shaken  down  the  Hempfield  townhall  or  tipped 
over  the  Congregational  Church,  but  the  Cap 
tain  might  not  have  thought  of  putting  the 
news  in  the  paper  unless  it  had  occurred  to 
him  that  the  selectmen  should  have  been  on 
hand  to  prevent  the  earthquake,  upon  which  he 
would  have  had  a  glorious  article,  not  on  the 
earthquake,  but  on  the  failure  of  a  free  Amer 
ican  commonwealth,  in  this  enlightened  twenti 
eth  century,  to  secure  efficiency  in  the  conduct 
of  the  simplest  of  its  public  affairs. 

But  truly  historic  events  get  themselves  re 
ported  even  through  the  densest  mediums.  I 
saw  the  Captain  with  my  own  eyes  as  he  wrote : 

What  has  become  of  the  officer  of  the  law  in  Hemp- 
Held?  A  strange  young  man  was  seen  coming  down 


70  HEMPFIELD 

Main  Street  yesterday  afternoon  in  a  condition  which 
made  him  a  sad  example  for  the  lads  of  Hempfield,  many 
of  whom  were  following  him.  Is  this  an  orderly  and 
law-abiding  town  or  is  it  not? 

I  may  say  in  passing  that  the  Captain's 
inquiry :  "  What  has  become  of  the  officer  of  the 
law  in  Hempfield  ? "  was  purely  rhetorical.  The 
Captain  knew  perfectly  well  where  Steve  Lewis 
was  at  that  critical  moment,  for  he  had  looked 
over  the  fence  of  Steve's  yard  as  he  passed,  and 
saw  that  officer  of  the  law,  in  a  large  blue  apron, 
helping  his  wife  hang  out  the  week's  washing. 
But  how  could  one  put  that  in  the  Star? 

Such  was  the  exact  wording  of  that  historic 
item.  By  some  chance  it  did  not  meet  the 
eagle  eye  of  Ed  Smith  until  the  completely 
printed  paper,  still  moist  from  the  press,  was 
placed  in  his  hands.  Then  his  eye  fell  upon  it. 

"Who  wrote  this  item  about  a  strange 
young  man?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  the  Captain  got  it,"  said  Anthy. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Ed,  "that  must  be  the 
very  chap  I  have  just  hired  to  help  Fergus." 

He  paused  a  moment,  reflectively. 

"I  got  him  dirt  cheap,  too,"  said  he. 

And  this  was  the  way  in  which  Norton  Carr 
was  plunged  into  the  whirl  of  life  at  Hempfield. 


CHAPTER  V 

NORT 

I  LOVE  Norton  Carr  very  much,  as  he  well 
knows,  but  if  I  am  to  tell  a  truthful  story 
I  may  as  well  admit,  first  as  last,  that  Nort  was 
never  quite  sure  how  it  was  that  he  got  off,  or 
was  put  off,  at  Hempfield.  In  making  this 
admission,  however,  I  do  not  for  a  moment 
accept  all  the  absurd  stories  which  are  afloat  re 
garding  Nort's  arrival  in  Hempfield. 

71 


72  HEMPFIELD 

He  says  the  first  thing  he  remembers  clearly 
was  of  standing  in  the  street  at  the  top  of  our 
common,  looking  down  into  Hempfield — one 
of  the  finest  views  in  our  town.  The  exact 
historic  spot  where  he  stood  was  nearly  in 
front  of  a  small  shoe  shop,  the  one  now  kept 
by  Tony,  the  Italian.  If  ever  the  Georgia 
Johnson  Chapter  of  the  Daughters  of  the 
American  Revolution  runs  out  of  places  upon 
which  to  plant  stones,  tablets,  trees,  flowers, 
cannon  balls,  or  drinking  fountains,  I  would 
respectfully  suggest  raising  a  monument  in 
front  of  Tony's  shop  with  some  such  inscrip 
tion  as  this: 


Here  Stood 

NORTON  CARR 

On  the  Morning  of  His 

INVOLUNTARY 

Arrival  in  Hempfield 


Nort  walked  down  the  street  with  a  number 
of  boys  behind  him — three,  to  be  exact,  not  a 
"rabble."  He  was  seen  by  old  Mrs.  Parker, 


NORT  73 

one  of  our  most  prominent  journalists,  who 
was,  as  usual,  beating  her  doormat  on  the 
front  porch.  He  was  seen  by  Jared  Sparks, 
who  keeps  the  woodyard,  and  by  Johnny 
McGonigal,  who  drives  the  hack;  and  finally 
he  was  caught  by  the  eagle  eye  of  the  Press,  in 
the  person  of  Captain  Doane,  as  I  have  al 
ready  related,  and  his  shame  was  published 
abroad  to  the  world  through  the  columns  of 
the  Star.  As  nearly  as  I  can  make  out,  for 
the  facts  regarding  any  given  event  in  Hemp- 
field  often  vary  in  adverse  proportion  to  the 
square  of  the  number  of  persons  doing  the 
reporting,  the  main  indictment  against  Nort 
upon  this  occasion  was  that  he  appeared  in 
town,  a  stranger  without  a  hat.  Without  a 
hat! 

I  admit  that  he  did  stop  in  front  of  the  Con 
gregational  Church;  but  I  maintain  that  it  is 
well  worth  any  man's  while  to  stop  on  a  fine 
morning  and  look  at  our  old  church,  with  its 
mantle  of  ivy  and  the  sparrows  building  their 
nests  in  the  eaves.  I  admit  also  that  he  did 
make  a  bow,  a  low  bow,  to  the  spire,  but  I 
deny  categorically  Johnny  McGonigal's  ab 
surd  yarn  that  he  said :  "  Good  mornin ',  church. 
Shorry  sheem  disrespechtful."  Any  one  who 


74  HEMPFIELD 

knows  Nort  as  well  as  I  do  would  not  consider 
his  making  a  bow  to  a  perfectly  respectable  old 
church  as  anything  remarkable,  or  accusing 
him  of  having  been  intoxicated,  save  with  the 
wine  of  spring  and  of  youth.  Why,  I  myself 
have  often  bowed  to  fine  old  oak  trees  and  to 
hilltops.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  when  small 
communities  jump  at  conclusions,  they  so  often 
jump  the  wrong  way? 

And  yet  I  don't  want  to  blame  Hempfield. 
You  can  see  for  yourself  what  it  would  mean— 
a  stranger,  without  a  hat,  bowing  to  the  spire 
of  the  Congregational  Church — what  it  would 
mean  in  a  town  which  has  religiously  voted 
"dry"  every  spring  since  the  local-option  law 
went  into  effect,  which  abhors  saloons,  which 
resounds  with  the  thunders  of  pulpit  and  press 
against  the  iniquity  of  drink,  and  where,  if 
there  are  three  or  four  places  where  the  mon 
ster  may  be  quietly  devoured,  no  one  is  sup 
posed  to  know  anything  about  them. 

I  do  not  enlarge  upon  this  picture  of  Nort 
with  any  delight,  and  yet  I  have  always 
thought  that  it  was  a  great  help  to  Nort  that 
he  should  have  appeared  in  Hempfield  in  the 
guise  of  a  vagabond. 

If  we  had  known  then  that  he  had  the  right 


NORT  75 

kind  of  a  father,  had  come  from  the  right  kind 
of  a  college,  and  had  already  spent  a  good  deal 
of  money  that  he  had  not  earned,  I  fear  he 
would  have  been  seriously  handicapped.  We 
should  probably  have  looked  the  other  way 
while  he  was  bowing  to  the  church — and  con 
sidered  that  he  was  going  without  a  hat  for 
his  health.  As  for  putting  him  in  the  Star, 
we  should  never  have  dreamed  of  it! 

I  love  to  think  of  Nort,  coming  down  our 
street  for  the  first  time — the  green  common 
with  its  wonderful  tali  elms  on  one  side  and 
the  row  cf  neat  stores  and  offices  on  the  other. 
It  must  be  a  real  adventure  to  see  Hempfield 
on  a  sunny  morning  with  a  new  eye,  to  pass 
Henderson's  drygoods  store  and  catch  the 
ginghamy  whiff  from  the  open  doorway,  or  go 
by  Mr.  Tole's  drug  store  and  breathe  in  the 
aromatic  odour  of  strange  things  that  should  be 
stoppered  in  glass  bottles  and  aren't.  And 
then  the  cool  smell  of  newly  watered  sidewalks, 
and  the  good  look  of  the  tomatoes  in  their 
baskets,  and  the  moist  onions,  and  spinach,  and 
radishes,  and  rhubarb  in  front  of  the  shady 
market,  and  the  sparrows  fighting  in  the  street 
—and  everything  quiet,  and  still,  and  home 
like! 


76  HEMPFIELD 

And  think  of  coming  unexpectedly  (how  I 
wish  I  could  do  it  myself  some  day  and  wake  up 
afterward  to  enjoy  it)  upon  the  wide  doorway 
of  John  Bass's  blacksmith  shop,  and  see  John 
himself  standing  there  at  his  anvil  with  a  hot 
horseshoe  in  his  tongs.  John  never  sings  when 
his  iron  is  in  the  fire,  but  the  moment  he  gets 
his  hand  on  his  hammer  and  the  iron  on  the 
horn  of  the  anvil,  then  all  the  Baptist  in  him 
seems  suddenly  to  effervesce,  and  he  lifts  his 
high  and  squeaky  voice: 

"Jeru  (whack)  salem  (whack)  the  gold 
(whack)  en  (whack,  whack), 

"With  milk  (whack)  and  hon  (whack)  ey 
blest  (whack,  whack,  whack)." 

And  what  wouldn't  I  give  to  clap  my  eyes 
newly  on  old  Mr.  Kenton,  standing  there  in 
front  of  his  office,  his  florid  face  shaded  by  the 
porch  roof,  but  the  rotundity  of  his  white 
waistcoat  gleaming  in  the  sunshine,  his  cane 
hooked  over  his  arm,  and  himself  looking  be 
nignly  out  upon  the  world  of  Hempfield  as  it 
flows  by,  ready  to  discuss  with  any  one  either 
the  origin  or  the  destiny  of  his  neighbours. 

At  the  corner  above  the  post  office  Nort 
stopped  and  leaned  against  the  fence,  and 
looked  up  the  street  and  down  the  street.  His 


NORT  77 

spirits  were  extremely  low.  He  felt  wholly 
miserable.  He  had  not  a  notion  in  the  world 
what  he  was  going  to  do,  did  not  at  that  time 
even  know  the  name  of  the  town  he  was  in.  It 
was  indeed  pure  chance  that  had  led  him  to 
Hempfield.  If  he  had  had  a  few  cents  more  in 
his  pocket  it  might  have  been  Acton,  or  if  a  few 
cents  less  it  might  have  been  Roseburg.  His 
only  instinct,  blurred  at  the  moment,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  had  been  to  get  as  far  away  from 
New  York  as  possible — and  Hempfield  hap 
pened  to  be  just  about  the  limit  of  his  means. 
He  was  already  of  twominds  as  to  whether  he 
should  give  it  all  up  and  get  back  to  New  York 
as  quickly  as  possible.  He  thought  of  drop 
ping  in  on  the  most  important  man  in  town, 
say  the  banker,  or  the  Congregational  minister, 
and  introducing  himself  in  the  role  of  contrite 
spendthrift  or  of  remorseful  prodigal,  as  the 
case  might  be — trust  Nort  for  knowing  how  to 
do  it — and  by  hook  or  crook  raise  enough 
money  to  take  him  back.  He  pictured  him 
self  sitting  in  the  quiet  study  of  the  minister, 
looking  sad,  sad,  and  his  mind  lighted  up  with 
the  wonderful  things  he  could  say  to  prove  that 
of  all  the  sheep  that  had  bleated  and  gone 
astray  since  ever  the  world  began,  he  was, 


78  HEMPFIELD 

without  any  doubt,  the  darkest  of  hue.  He 
sketched  in  the  details  with  a  sure  touch.  He 
could  almost  see  the  good  old  man's  face,  the 
look  of  commiseration  gradually  melting  to  one 
of  pitying  helpfulness.  It  would  require  only  a 
very  few  dollars  to  get  him  back  to  New  York. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  carrying  this  in 
teresting  scheme  into  operation  when  the 
scenes  and  incidents  of  his  recent  life  in  New 
York  swept  over  him,  a  mighty  and  inundating 
wave  of  black  discouragement.  Everything 
had  been  wrong  with  him  from  the  beginning, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  morning.  He  had  not 
had  the  right  parents,  nor  the  right  education, 
nor  enough  will  power,  nor  any  true  friends,  nor 
the  proper  kind  of  ambition. 

When  Satan  first  led  Nort  up  on  a  high  hill 
and  offered  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth, 
Nort  had  responded  eagerly: 

"Why,  sure!  I'll  take  em.  Got  any  more 
where  those  come  from?" 

Nort's  was  an  eager,  curious,  ardent,  in 
satiable  nature,  which  should  have  been  held 
back  rather  than  stimulated.  No  sooner  had 
he  stepped  out  into  life  than  he  wanted  it  all— 
everything  that  he  could  see,  or  hear,  or  smell, 
or  taste,  or  touch — and  all  at  once.  I  do  not 


lie  pictured  himself  sitting   in   the  quiet  study  of  the   minister, 
looking  sad,  sad 


NORT  79 

mean  by  this  that  Nort  was  a  vicious  or  aban 
doned  character  beyond  the  pale  of  his  human 
kind.  He  had,  indeed,  done  things  that  were 
wrong,  that  he  knew  were  wrong,  but  thus  far 
they  had  been  tentative,  experimental,  spring 
ing  not  from  any  deeply  vicious  instincts  but 
expressing,  rather,  his  ardent  curiosity  about 
life. 

I  think  sometimes  that  our  common  defini 
tion  of  dissipation  is  far  too  narrow.  We  con 
fine  it  to  crude  excesses  in  the  use  of  intoxicating 
liquor  or  the  crude  gratification  of  the  passions; 
but  often  these  are  only  the  outward  symbols 
of  a  more  subtle  inward  disorder.  The  things 
of  the  world — a  thousand  clamouring  interests, 
desires,  possessions — have  got  the  better  of  us. 
Men  become  drunken  with  the  inordinate  desire 
for  owning  things,  and  dissolute  with  ambition 
for  political  office.  I  knew  a  man  once,  a 
farmer,  esteemed  an  upright  man  in  our  com 
munity,  who  debauched  himself  upon  land;  fed 
his  appetite  upon  the  happiness  of  his  home, 
cheated  his  children  of  education,  and  himself 
went  shabby,  bookless,  joyless,  comfortless, 
that  he  might  buy  more  land.  I  call  that  dis 
sipation,  too! 

And  in  youth,  when  all  the  earth  is  very 


8o  HEMPFIELD 

beautiful,  when  our  powers  seem  as  limitless  as 
our  desires  (I  know,  I  know!),  we  stand  like 
Samson,  and  for  the  sheer  joy  of  testing  our 
strength  pull  down  the  pillars  of  the  temple  of 
the  world. 

In  Nort's  case  a  supply  of  unearned  money 
had  enormously  increased  his  power  of  see 
ing,  hearing,  feeling,  doing;  everything  opened 
wide  to  the  magic  touch  of  the  wand  of  youth, 
enthusiasm,  money.  He  could  neither  live 
fast  enough  nor  enjoy  too  much. 

He  had,  indeed,  had  periods  of  sharp  re 
action.  This  was  not  the  first  time  that  the 
kingdoms  of  the  earth,  too  easily  possessed, 
had  palled  upon  him,  and  he  had  resolved  to 
escape.  But  he  had  never  yet  been  quite 
strong  enough;  he  had  never  gone  quite  low 
enough.  The  lure  of  that  which  was  exciting 
or  amusing  or  beautiful,  above  all,  that  which 
was  or  pretended  to  be  friendly  or  companion 
able,  had  always  proved  too  strong  for  him. 

As  time  passed,  and  his  naturally  vigorous 
mind  expanded — his  body  was  never  very  ro 
bust — the  reactions  from  the  diversions  with 
which  his  life  was  surrounded  grew  blacker  and 
more  desperate.  In  his  moments  of  reflection 
he  saw  clearly  where  his  path  was  leading  him. 


NORT  8 i 

There  was  much  in  him,  though  never  yet 
called  out,  of  the  native  force  of  his  stern  old 
grandfather  who  had  begun  life  a  wage  la 
bourer,  and  in  his  moments  of  revolt,  as  men 
who  dissipate  crave  that  which  is  cold  or  bitter 
or  sour,  Nort  had  moments  of  intense  long 
ing  for  something  hard,  knotty,  difficult,  for 
hunger,  cold,  privation.  Without  knowing  it, 
he  was  groping  for  reality. 

Andhere  hewas  in  Hempfield,leaningagainst 
the  fence  of  Mrs.  Barrow's  garden,  desperately 
low  in  his  spirits,  at  one  moment  wondering 
why  he  had  come  away,  at  the  next  feeling 
wretchedly  that  somehow  this  was  his  last 
chance.  Pool!  fool!  His  whole  being  loathed 
the  discomfort  of  his  pampered  body,  and  yet 
he  felt  that  if  he  gave  up  now  he  might  never 
again  have  the  courage  to  revolt. 

What  a  thing  is  youth !  That  sunny  morning 
in  Hempfield  Nort  thought  that  he  was  drink 
ing  the  uttermost  dregs  of  life — they  were 
pretty  bitter — and  yet,  somehow,  he  was  able 
to  stand  a  little  aside  and  enjoy  it  all.  Black 
as  it  was,  it  had  yet  the  mystical  quality  of  a 
new  adventure,  new  possibilities.  At  one 
moment  Nort  was  hating  himself,  hating  his 
whole  life,  hating  the  town  in  which  fate  had 


82  HEMPFIELD 

dropped  him,  with  all  the  passion  of  a  naturally 
robust  nature;  and  at  the  next  he  was  peeping 
around  the  corner  of  the  next  adventure  to  see 
what  he  might  see.  The  suffering  of  youth 
with  honey  in  its  mouth! 

Oh,  to  be  twenty-four!  To  feel  that  one  has 
sounded  all  the  chords  of  life,  known  every 
bitterness,  to  have  become  entirely  disillu 
sioned,  wholly  cynical,  utterly  reckless — and 
not  to  know  that  life  and  illusion  have  only 
just  begun! 

The  hard,  bristling,  painful  thing  in  his  in- 
sides  which  Nort  couldn't  identify,  wrongly 
attributing  it  to  certain  things  he  had  been 
eating  and  drinking  now  for  several  days  past, 
was  in  fact  his  soul. 

How  I  love  to  think  of  Nort  at  that  mo 
ment,  that  wonderful,  fertile,  despondent, 
hopeful,  passionate  moment.  How  I  love  to 
think  of  him,  who  is  now  so  dear  a  friend,  quite 
miserable,  but  with  a  half  smile  on  his  lips,  his 
vigorous  nature  full  of  every  conceivable  pos 
sibility  of  good  or  evil,  of  success  or  failure, 
every  capability  of  great  love  or  great  bitter 
ness—  Nort,  arm  in  arm  with  Life,  tugged 
at  by  both  God  and  Satan,  standing  there,  aim 
less,  in  the  sunny  street  of  Hempfield. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS 

IT  WAS  really  a  moment  of  vast  potential 
ities  when  Nort  turned  down  the  street 
toward  the  town  instead  of  up  toward  the  rail 
road  station  and  the  open  road.  For  down  the 
street  was  the  way  to  the  printing-office  and 
the  old  Captain  and  Anthy  and  Fergus  and  me, 
and  all  the  things,  big  and  little,  I  am  about  to 
relate.  I  tremble  sometimes  when  I  think  how 
narrowly  this  story  escaped  not  coming  into 
existence  at  all. 

It  was  upon  this  brief  but  historic  journey 
that  Ed  Smith  met  Nort,  and  like  any  true 
newspaper  man  with  a  "nose  for  news," 

83 


84  HEMPFIELD 

stopped  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  the  singular 
stranger.  It  took  him  not  quite  two  seconds  to 
"size  up"  Nort.  It  was  easy  for  Ed  to  "size 
up"  people,  for  he  had  just  two  classifications: 
those  people  whom  he  could  use,  and  those  who 
could  use  him.  His  problem  of  life  thus  be 
came  quite  simple:  it  consisted  in  shifting  as 
many  as  possible  of  those  of  the  second  classi 
fication  into  the  first. 

"If  you  would  not  be  done  by  a  man,  do  him 
first,''  was  one  of  Ed's  treasured  Ben  Frank- 
linisms. 

Nort  was  rather  mistily  in  search  of  "some 
thing  to  do."  Well,  what  could  he  do?  It 
took  some  groping  in  his  mind  to  discover  any 
accomplishment  whatever  that  was  convert 
ible  into  money,  especially  in  a  small  town  like 
Hempfield.  Finally  he  said  he  knew  "some 
thing  about  machinery" —he  did  not  specify 
automobiles — and  by  some  wild  chance  men 
tioned  the  fact  that  he  had  once  worked  in  a 
newspaper  office  (two  months — and  was  dread 
fully  tired  of  it). 

Now,  Ed  Smith  was  as  sharp  as  any  light 
ning  known  in  our  part  of  the  world,  and  there 
being  nothing  he  loved  better  than  a  "bold 
stroke"  in  which  he  could  "close  a  deal"  and 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  85 

do  it  "on  the  spot,"  it  took  him  not  above  five 
minutes  to  offer  Nort  a  trial  in  the  office  of  the 
Star  at  wages  which  approximated  nothing  at 
all.  If  he  could  "make  good,"  etc.,  etc.,  why, 
there  were  great  opportunities,  etc.,  etc.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  that  Ed  had  dealt  with 
tramp  printers!  And  Nort,  still  low  in  his 
mind  and  quite  prepared  for  anything,  agreed 
to  come. 

Your  sharp,  shrewd  man  can  deal  profitably 
with  the  ninety-nine  men  who  walk  or  run  or 
burrow  or  climb,  especially  if  they  happen  to 
look  seedy,  but  he  is  never  quite  prepared  for 
the  hundredth  man  who  can  fly.  That  is, 
it  sometimes  happens  that  a  man  who  has 
been  comfortably  ensconced  in  the  pigeonhole 
labelled,  "To  Be  Done,"  is  suddenly — and  by 
some  hocus-pocus  which  your  sharp  one  can 
never  quite  comprehend,  and  considers  unfair 
—is  suddenly  discovered  to  have  disappeared, 
evaporated,  to  have  escaped  classification.  I 
throw  in  this  observation  at  this  point  for  what 
it  may  be  worth,  and  not  because  I  have  any 
thing  against  Ed  Smith.  We  may  think  a 
woodpecker's  bill  to  be  entirely  too  long  for 
beauty,  but  it  is  fine  for  the  woodpecker. 
Moreover,  I  cannot  forget  that  without  Ed 


86  HEMPFIELD 

Smith  the  Hempfield  Star  would  never  have  seen 
Nort. 

How  well  I  remember  my  first  sight  of  the 
"man  to  help  Fergus!"  It  was  about  two 
days,  I  think,  after  his  arrival,  and  at  a  time 
when  the  Star  was  twinkling  in  the  most  ex 
traordinary  and  energetic  fashion.  You  could 
almost  hear  it  twinkle.  As  I  came  into  the 
office  Anthy  and  Fergus  were  busy  at  their 
cases,  the  old  Captain  at  his  desk,  Ed  Smith  in 
shirtsleeves  was  making  up  a  new  advertise 
ment,  and  Dick,  the  canary,  swinging  in  the 
window.  But  what  was  that  strange  object  in 
the  corner  on  the  floor? 

Why,  Nort,  sprawled  full  length,  with  his 
head  almost  touching  the  gasoline  engine !  He 
had  parts  of  it  pretty  well  distributed  around 
him  on  the  floor,  and  as  nearly  as  I  could  make 
out,  was  trying  to  get  his  nose  into  the  boiler, 
or  barrel,  or  whatever  the  insides  of  a  gasoline 
engine  are  called.  Also  he  was  whistling,  as 
he  loved  to  do,  in  a  low  monotone,  apparently 
enjoying  himself.  Presently  he  glanced  up  at  me. 

"Ever  study  the  anatomy  of  a  gasoline 
engine?"  he  asked. 

"Never,"  said  I. 

"Interesting  study,"  said  he. 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  87 

"I  know  something  about  the  anatomy  of 
cows  and  pigs  and  hens,"  I  said,  "but  I  suppose 
a  gasoline  engine  is  somewhat  different." 

"Somewhat,"  said  he. 

He  tinkered  away  industriously  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  when  I  continued  to  stand  there 
watching  him,  he  inquired  solemnly: 

"A  hen  has  no  spark  coil,  has  it?" 

"No,"  I  said,  just  as  solemnly,  "but  neither 
can  a  gasoline  engine  cackle." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  sight  of  Nort  as  he 
slowly  rose  to  a  sitting  position  and  looked 
me  over — especially  the  smile  of  him  and  the 
gleam  in  his  eyes.  There  was  a  dab  of  oil  on 
his  nose  and  smudges  on  his  chin,  but  he  took 
me  in. 

So  this  was  the  person  who  had  appeared 
without  a  hat  on  our  highly  respectable  streets, 
and  got  his  shame  heralded  in  the  paper!  I 
felt  like  saying  to  him : 

"Well,  you're  a  cheerful  reprobate,  I  must 
say!" 

You  see,  we  are  nearly  all  of  us  shocked  by 
the  cheerfulness  of  the  wicked.  We  feel  that 
those  whom  we  have  set  aside  as  reprobates,  or 
sinful  spectacles,  should  by  good  right  draw 
long  faces  and  be  appropriately  miserable;  and 


88  HEMPFIELD 

we  never  become  quite  accustomed  to  our 
own  surprise  at  finding  them  happy  or  con 
tented. 

In  short,  I  began  to  be  interested  in  that  rep 
robate,  in  spite  of  myself.  I  had  come  to 
town  intending  to  have  a  talk  with  Anthy  and 
the  old  Captain  (who  was  at  this  moment  at 
work  at  his  desk),  but  instead  I  squatted  down 
on  the  floor  near  Nort,  and  while  he  tinkered 
and  puttered  and  whistled,  we  kept  up  a  run 
ning  conversation  which  we  both  found  highly 
diverting. 

If  there  is  one  thing  I  enjoy  more  than  an 
other  it  is  to  crack  open  a  hard  fellow-mortal, 
take  him  apart,  as  Nort  was  taking  apart  his 
engine,  and  see  what  it  is  that  makes  him  go 
round.  But  in  Nort,  that  morning,  I  found 
more  than  a  match.  We  parried  and  fenced, 
advanced  and  retreated,  but  beyond  a  firm 
conclusion  on  my  part  that  he  was  no  ordinary 
tramp  printer  and,  indeed,  no  ordinary  human 
being,  he  kept  me  completely  mystified,  and, 
as  I  could  plainly  see,  enjoyed  doing  it,  too.  He 
told  me,  long  afterward,  that  he  thought  me 
that  morning  an  "odd  one." 

I  deny,  however,  that  I  was  carried  away  on 
the  spot;  I  was  interested,  but  I  was  now  too 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  89 

deeply  concerned  for  my  friends  on  the  Star  to 
accept  him  entirely.  Even  after  he  brought 
in  his  first  contribution  to  our  columns,  es 
pecially  the  one  that  began,  "There  is  a  man  in 
this  town  who  quarrels  regularly  with  his  wife," 
I  was  still  doubtful  about  him — but  I  must  not 
get  ahead  of  my  story. 

Well,  it  was  wonderful  the  way  Nort  went 
through  the  office  of  the  Star.  As  I  think  of  it 
now,  I  am  reminded  of  the  description  of  a  re 
markable  plant  called  the  lantana,  which  I  read 
about  recently  in  an  interesting  book  on  the 
Hawaiian  Islands.  It  was  brought  in,  a  humble 
and  lowly  shrub,  to  help  ornament  a  garden  in 
those  delectable  isles.  Finding  the  climate 
highly  agreeable  and  its  customary  enemies 
absent,  it  escaped  from  the  garden,  and  in  a 
wild  spirit  of  vagabondage  spread  out  along 
the  sunny  roads  and  mountainsides,  until  it 
has  overrun  all  the  islands;  and  from  being  an 
insignificant  shrub,  it  now  grows  to  the  size  of  a 
small  tree.  Most  painful  to  relate,  however, 
the  once  admired  shrub  has  become  a  veritable 
pest,  and  the  people  of  the  islands  are  using 
their  ingenuity  in  seeking  a  way  to  destroy  it. 

Now,  that  is  very  much  the  early  history  of 
Nort  in  the  office  of  the  Star.  At  first,  of 


90  HEMPFIELD 

course,  he  was  way  down  in  the  depths,  both 
in  his  own  estimation  and  in  ours — a  man  to 
tinker  the  engine,  run  the  job  presses,  sweep  the 
floors,  and  do  the  thousand  and  one  other  use 
ful  but  menial  things  to  help  Fergus.  More 
over,  he  was  on  his  good  behaviour  and  more 
than  ordinarily  subdued.  It  required  a  rea 
sonable  amount  of  good  honest  depression  in 
those  days  to  make  Nort  tolerable.  He  was 
like  a  high-spirited  horse  that  has  to  be  driven 
hard  for  a  dozen  miles  before  it  is  any  pleasure 
to  hold  the  reins.  If  we  had  known  then — but 
we  knew  nothing. 

There  are  two  ways  by  which  men  advance 
in  this  world — one  is  by  doing,  the  other  by 
being.  We  Americans,  these  many  years, 
have  been  cultivating  and  stimulating  the 
doers.  We  have  made  the  doers  our  heroes, 
and  have,  therefore,  had  no  poetry,  no  art,  no 
music,  no  personality,  and,  I  was  going  to  say, 
no  religion.  Doing  leads  the  way  to  riches, 
power,  reputation,  and  if  it  occasionally  lands 
a  man  in  the  penitentiary,  still  we  feel  that 
there  is  something  grand  about  it,  and  reflect 
that  the  same  process  also  leads  to  the  Sen 
ate  or  the  White  House  or  a  palace  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  Ed  Smith  was  a  doer,  but  Nort  was 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  91 

only  a  be-er.  And  Nort  didn't  even  try  to  be: 
he  just  was.  And  we  planted  him,  a  humble 
shrub,  in  the  garden  of  our  lives,  and  in  no 
time  at  all  the  vagabond  had  spread  to  the 
sunny  uplands  of  our  hearts.  And  then— 

I    soon    found    that 
every   one  else   in   the 
office,  Anthy  included 
(at  that  time,  anyway), 
had  begun  to  be  inter 
ested  in  Nort,  much  as 
I  was.    It  was  not 
that    Nort    tried 
to   court    our 
favour 


rking 


1  soon  found  that  everyone'  else  in  the  office,  Anthy  included, 
had  begun  to  be  interested  in  Nort 


92  HEMPFIELD 

being  sober,  appearing  willing,  in  order  to  get 
ahead;  that  would  have  been  Ed  Smith's  way; 
but  Nort  had  never  in  all  his  short  life  thought 
ot  getting  ahead.  Of  whom  was  he  to  get 
ahead  ?  And  why  should  he  get  ahead  ? 

The  fact  is  that  Nort,  caught  in  the  rebound 
from  a  life  that  had  become  temporarily  in 
tolerable,  found  the  quietude  of  Hempfield 
soothing  to  him;  and  the  life  of  the  printing- 
office  was  so  different  as  to  be  momentarily 
amusing  to  his  royal  highness.  We  were  a 
new  toy — that's  what  we  were:  the  rag  baby 
for  which  the  pampered  child  of  wealth  tem 
porarily  discards  her  French  dolls. 

It  was  a  fortunate  thing  that  Ed  started  Nort 
at  once  on  the  task  of  overhauling  the  gasoline 
engine,  for  it  was  one  of  the  things  that  he  had 
always  loved  to  do.  When  he  had  finished  the 
engine,  he  must  clean  up  and  repair  the  belts 
and  pulley  that  operated  the  press,  and  this  led 
him  naturally  to  the  press  itself,  an  ancient 
Hoe  model  with  heavy  springs  below  that 
operated  the  running  table.  By  this  time  he 
had  begun  really  to  wake  up,  and  as  he  worked, 
hummed  like  a  hive  of  bees.  He  called  the 
press  "Old  Harry,"  and  gave  it  such  a  cleaning 
up  as  it  had  not  had  since  the  early  days  of 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  93 

Anthy's  father.  All  this  seemed  to  amuse  him 
very  much,  for  he  imagined  things  with  his 
fingers.  It  also  amused  us,  he  was  so  tre 
mendously  interested  and  so  personal  about  it 
all.  He  was  forever  calling  in  Fergus,  never 
Ed  Smith,  with  such  remarks  as  these: 

"How  does  she  look  now,  Fergus?  Will  she 
stand  fora  little  stiffer  spring, you  think?  She's 
a  good  one,  eh,  Fergus,  for  her  age?"  And  so 
on,  and  so  on. 

During  these  days  I  watched  Fergus  with 
almost  as  much  interest  as  I  watched  Nort. 
He  seemed  nonplussed.  He  was  like  a  hen  that 
has  unexpectedly  hatched  a  duckling.  At  one 
moment  he  seemed  resentful  at  this  uprooting 
of  ancient  and  settled  institutions,  and  he  was 
a  little  angry  all  the  time  at  being  carried  along 
by  Nort's  enthusiasm,  for  he  was  constitution 
ally  suspicious  of  enthusiasm ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  could  not  resist  the  constant  appeals 
to  his  superior  judgment.  When  deferred  to 
he  would  drop  his  head  a  little  to  one  side, 
partially  close  one  eye,  draw  down  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  and  after  smoking  furiously  for  a 
few  puffs,  would  take  out  his  pipe  and  remark: 

"  Wull,  it  looks  to  me—      "  etc.,  etc. 

As  he  gave  his  opinion  I  could  see  the  live 


94  HEMPFIELD 

gleam  in  Nort's  eyes,  and  I  knew  that  he  was 
finding  almost  as  much  amusement  in  tinker 
ing  Fergus  as  he  found  in  tinkering  the  old 
press.  I  think  that  Fergus  liked  Nort  from  the 
very  first,  but  wild  horses  could  not  have 
dragged  a  favourable  opinion  of  him  out  of 
Fergus.  Fergus  had  a  deeply  ingrained  con 
viction  that  no  man  should  think  more  highly 
of  himself  than  he  ought  to  think,  and  lost  no 
opportunity  of  reducing  bumps  of  self-esteem, 
wherever  discovered. 

Having  finished  the  old  press,  Nort's  lively 
mind  began  to  consider  what  might  be  done 
with  a  perfectly  healthy  gasoline  engine  sitting 
in  the  corner  and  wasting  most  of  its  time.  He 
fitted  up  a  new  belt  and  pulley  to  run  the  two 
small  presses  and,  there  being  at  that  moment 
quite  a  job  of  posters  to  run  off,  thrilled  the 
office  with  the  speed  and  ease  with  which  the 
work  could  be  done.  All  this  delighted  Ed 
Smith,  for  it  was  "something  doing" — and 
didn't  cost  much:  although  I  think  he  had 
already  begun  to  regard  it  as  a  suspicious  sign 
that  Nort,  having  fully  recovered  his  spirits,  did 
not  demand  an  immediate  increase  in  wages. 
It  was  the  first  of  several  unpredictable  events 
quite  outside  the  range  of  Ed's  experience. 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  95 

As  for  the  old  Captain,  he  was  stoutly 
opposed  to  it  all.  He  called  it  Ed-Smithism 
and  refused  to  countenance  it  in  any  way. 
For  thirty  years  the  Star  had  been  a  power  in 
the  councils  of  Westmoreland  County  (said 
the  Captain).  Why,  then,  these  sensational 
changes?  Why  this  rank  commercialism? 
Why  all  this  confusion  ? 

"I  am  a  reasonable  person,  as  you  know, 
Anthy,"  said  the  Captain;  "I  believe  in  prog 
ress.  The  earth  moves,  the  suns  revolve,  but 
all  this  business  of  Ed  Smith  is  bosh,  plain,  un 
adulterated  bosh!" 

"  But,  Uncle—  '  Anthy  was  still  earnestly 
trying  to  keep  peace  in  the  office. 

"Fudge!"  roared  the  Captain,  and  then, 
seeing  that  he  had  pained  Anthy,  he  was  all 
contrition  at  once,  threw  one  arm  about  her 
shoulders  and,  regaining  his  usual  jaunty  air, 
remarked: 

'Never  mind,  Anthy.  I  am  a  patient  man. 
I  will  await  the  progress  of  events." 

He  was  firmly  convinced  that  Ed  Smith  and 
all  his  contraptions  would  soon  be  abolished 
from  the  office  of  the  Star. 

As  to  Nort — the  Captain  did  not  at  first  see 
him  at  all.  Fie  was  an  Ed-Smithism,  and  the 


96  HEMPFIELD 

Captain  could  not  get  over  his  first  sight  of 
Nort,  a  spectacle  in  the  streets  of  Hempfield. 
After  the  job  presses  began  to  work  by  power, 
following  a  suggestion  which  it  seems  the 
Captain  had  made  in  1899,  he  apparently  dis 
covered  Nort  afar  off,  as  though  looking 
through  the  big  end  of  a  spy-glass. 

What  was  our  astonishment,  therefore,  one 
evening  to  find  the  old  Captain  and  Nort 
engaged  in  a  most  extraordinary  and  secretive 
enterprise.  By  chance  we  saw  an  unusual 
light  in  the  front  office — Fergus's  light  was  in 
the  rear — and  went  in  to  investigate.  A  step- 
ladder  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Upon 
this  was  perched  the  old  Captain,  coat  off, 
white  hair  rumpled,  head  almost  touching  the 
ceiling,  hammer  in  hand. 

'There!"  he  was  saying. 

He  had  been  sounding  the  plaster  on  the 
ceiling  to  find  a  certain  stringer.  Nort,  just 
below,  was  gazing  up  with  a  half  smile  on  his 
lips  and  that  look  of  live  amusement,  yes, 
deviltry,  which  came  too  easily  to  his  eyes. 

"Found  her,  have  you,  Cap'n?"  he  was  in 
quiring. 

"Here  she  is,"  responded  the  Captain  tri 
umphantly. 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  97 

And  then  they  saw  Fergus  and  me — the 
Captain  looking  very  sheepish  and  Nort  like  a 
bad  boy  caught  in  the  jam  closet. 

Just  how  Nort  did  it  I  never  knew  exactly, 
but  those  two  precious  partners  in  mischief 
were  engaged  in  quite  the  most  extraordinary 
innovation  in  the  staid  old  office  that  had  yet 
been  conceived. 

"Something  to  cool  the  Captain's  head," 
was  the  way  Nort  described  it.  It  was  hot 
weather,  doubly  hot  in  the  office  of  the  Star, 
surrounded  as  it  was  by  taller  buildings,  and  the 
Captain  especially  suffered  from  the  heat.  In 
some  way  Nort  had  led  him  guilefully  into  the 
scheme  of  installing  a  fan  on  the  ceiling  of  the 
office,  and,  what  is  more,  had  made  the  Captain 
believe  it  was  his  own  idea.  The  old  Captain 
was  in  reality  as  simple  hearted  as  a  child,  and 
once  he  and  Nort  had  agreed  upon  the  plan,  it 
delighted  him  to  carry  it  forward  secretly  and 
"surprise  Anthy,"  as  he  was  always  surprising 
her  with  some  one  or  another  of  his  extrava 
gances.  Afterward,  when  he  referred  to  the 
great  new  scheme  it  was  at  first:  "We  had  the 
idea,"  "We  thought,"  "We  worked  it  out." 
But  in  no  time  at  all,  it  had  become,  "  I  had  the 
idea,"  "I  thought."  And  when  visitors  came 


98  HEMPFIELD 

in  to  see  the  wonderful  new  fan  waving  its  ma 
jestic  wooden  arms  over  the  devoted  heads  of 
the  staff  of  the  Star,  you  would  have  thought 
the  old  Captain  did  it  all  himself. 

I  laugh  yet  when  I  think  of  the  first  few 
moments  of  the  operation  of  Nort's  invention. 
We  had  all  been  a  good  deal  excited  about  it, 
Ed  not  exactly  with  approval,  although  it  was 
a  good  "  ad  "  for  the  Star — but  the  old  Captain 
was  quite  beside  himself. 

"How  are  you  getting  along,  Nort?"  he 
began  inquiring  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
great  day. 

He  had  been  particular  at  first  to  speak  to 
Nort  as  "Carr,"  indicating  purely  formal  re 
lationship,  but  in  the  enthusiasm  of  putting 
up  the  fan  he  soon  dropped  into  the  familiar 
"Nort." 

"  Fine,  Cap'n,  we'll  have  her  running  now  in 
no  time." 

"Good!" 

"We'll  cool  your  head  yet,  Cap'n." 

"I'm  waiting,  Nort." 

When  Nort  finally  gave  the  word,  the  old 
Captain  drew  his  lame-legged  chair  squarely 
under  the  fan,  sat  himself  down  in  it,  and 
stretching  out  luxuriously,  leaned  his  beautiful 


A  MAN  TO  HELP  FERGUS  99 

old  head  a  little  back.  I  saw  the  Grand  Army 
button  on  his  coat. 

"Whir!"  went  the  fan.  The  Captain's 
white  hair  began  to  flutter.  He  sat  a  moment 
in  ecstatic  silence,  closing  and  opening  his 
eyes,  and  taking  a  deep  breath  or  two.  Then 
he  said: 

"Cool  as  a  cucumber,  Anthy,  cool  as  a  cu 
cumber." 

Fergus  barked  away  down  inside  somewhere, 
his  excuse  for  a  laugh. 

"Now,  Anthy,"  said  the  Captain,  "this  was 
to  be  your  surprise." 

So  he  had  Anthy  sit  down  in  the  chair. 

"Fine,  isn't  it?"  said  he,  "regular  breeze 
from  Labrador.  Greenland's  icy  mountains." 

"  Fine ! "  responded  Anthy. 

As  Anthy  sat  there,  the  fan  stirring  her  light 
hair,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  I  saw  Nort  looking 
at  her  in  a  curious,  amused,  puzzled  way,  as 
though  he  had  just  seen  her  for  the  first  time 
and  couldn't  quite  account  for  her.  I  myself 
thought  she  looked  a  little  sad  around  the  eyes: 
it  came  to  me,  indeed,  suddenly,  what  a  fine, 
strong  face  she  had.  She  sat  with  her  chin 
slightly  lifted,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  an  odd,  still 
way  she  sometimes  had.  Since  I  first  met 


ioo  HEMPFIELD 

Anthy,  that  day  in  the  office  of  the  Star,  I  had 
come  to  like  her  better  and  better.  And  some 
how,  deep  down  inside,  I  didn't  quite  like 
Nort's  look. 

"We  can  show 'em  a  thing  or  two,  eh,Nort?" 
the  Captain  was  saying. 

"Wecan,Cap'n." 

After  that,  no  matter  what  happened,  the 
Captain  swore  by  Nort.  He  was  a  loyal  old 
fellow,  and  whatever  your  views  might  be, 
whatever  you  may  have  done,  even  though  you 
had  sunk  to  the  depths  of  being  a  Democrat,  if 
he  once  came  to  love  you,  nothing  else  mat 
tered.  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the  old 
Captain  really  had  a  deeper  influence  upon  Nort 
during  the  weeks  that  followed  than  any  of  us 
imagined. 

This  incident  of  the  fan  marked  the  apogee 
of  the  first  stage  of  Nort's  career  in  the  office  of 
the  Star.  It  was  the  era  of  Nort  the  subdued ; 
and  preceded  the  era  of  Nort  the  obstreperous. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PHAETON  DRIVES  THE  CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR" 

I  FIND  myself  loitering  unaccountably  over 
every  memory  of  those  days  in  the  office  of 
the  Star.  Not  a  week  passed  that  I  did  not 
make  two  or  three  or  more  trips  from  my  farm 
to  Hempfield,  sometimes  tramping  by  the  short 
cut  across  the  fields  and  through  the  lanes, 
sometimes  driving  my  old  mare  in  the  town 
road,  and  always  with  the  problems  of  Anthy 
and  Nort  uppermost  in  my  mind.  Sometimes 
when  I  could  get  away,  and  sometimes  when  I 
couldn't  (Harriet  smiling  discreetly),  I  went  up 
in  the  daytime  to  lend  a  hand  in  the  office 
(especially  on  press  days),  and  often  in  the 
evening  I  went  for  a  talk  with  Nort  or  Anthy 


102  HEMPFIELD 

or  the  old  Captain,  or  else  for  a  good  comfortable 
silence  with  Fergus  while  he  sat  tipped  back  in 
his  chair  on  the  little  porch  of  the  office,  and 
smoked  a  pipe  or  so — and  the  daylight  slowly 
went  out,  the  moist  evening  odours  rose  up 
from  the  garden,  and  the  noises  in  the  street 
quieted  down. 

As  I  have  said,  the  incident  of  the  fan  marked 
the  end  of  the  era  of  Nort  the  subdued .  From 
that  time  onward,  for  a  time,  it  was  Nort  the 
ascendant — yes,  Nort  the  obstreperous!  As 
I  look  back  upon  it  now  I  have  an  amusing 
vision  of  one  after  another  of  us  hanging 
desperately  to  the  coat  tails  of  our  Phaeton  to 
prevent  him  from  driving  the  chariot  of  the 
Star  quite  to  destruction. 

It  was  this  way  with  Nort.  He  had  begun  to 
recover  from  the  remorse  and  discouragement 
which  had  brought  him  to  Hempfield.  If  he 
had  been  in  the  city  he  would  probably  have 
felt  so  thoroughly  restored  and  so  virtuous  that 
he  would  have  sought  out  his  old  companions 
and  plunged  with  renewed  zest  into  the  old  life 
of  excitement.  But  being  in  the  quiet  of  the 
country  he  had  to  find  some  outlet  for  his  high 
spirits,  some  food  for  his  curious,  lively,  in 
ventive  mind.  What  a  fascinator  he  was  in 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"         103 

those  days,  anyway!  I  think  he  put  his  spell 
upon  all  of  us,  even  to  a  certain  extent  upon  Ed 
Smith  at  first.  To  me,  in  particular,  who  have 
grown  perhaps  too  reflective,  too  introspective, 
with  the  years  of  quietude  on  my  farm,  he 
seemed  incredibly  alive,  so  that  I  was  never 
tired  of  watching  him.  He  was  like  the  boy  I 
had  been,  or  dreamed  I  had  been,  and  could 
never  be  again. 

And  yet  I  did  not  then  accept  him  utterly,  as 
the  loyal  old  Captain  had  done.  I  was  not 
sure  of  him.  His  attitude  toward  life  in  those 
days,  while  I  dislike  the  comparison,  was  sim 
ilar  to  that  of  Ed  Smith,  though  the  end  was 
different.  If  Ed  was  looking  for  his  own  ag 
grandizement,  Nort  was  not  the  less  eagerly 
in  pursuit  of  his  own  amusement  and  pleasure. 
I  had  a  feeling  that  he  would  play  with  us  a 
while  because  we  amused  him,  and  when  he  got 
tired  or  bored — that  would  be  the  end  of  us.  Up 
to  that  moment  Nort  had  never  really  become 
entangled  with  life:  life  had  never  hurt  him. 
Things  and  events  were  like  moving  pictures, 
which  he  enjoyed  hotly,  which  amused  him 
uproariously,  or  which  bored  him  desperately. 

As  fate  would  have  it — Ed  Smith's  fate— 
Nort's  opportunity  came  in  August.      It  was 


104  HEMPFIELD 

the  occasion,  as  I  remember  it,  of  some  out 
ing  of  the  State  Editors'  Association,  and  Ed 
planned  to  be  absent  for  two  weeks.  He 
evidently  felt  that  he  could  now  entrust  the 
destinies  of  the  Star  for  a  brief  time  to  his 
associates.  But  he  tore  himself  away  with 
evident  reluctance.  How  could  the  Star  be 
safely  left  to  the  mercies  of  the  old  Captain  (who 
had  been  its  titular  editor  for  thirty  years),  or 
to  Anthy  (who  was  merely  its  owner),  to  say 
nothing  of  such  disturbing  elements  as  Fergus 
and  Nort  and  me? 

A  deep  sigh  of  relief  seemed  to  rise  from  the 
office  of  the  Star.  One  fancied  that  Dick,  the 
canary,  chirped  more  cheerfully,  and  Fergus 
swore  that  he  found  Tom,  the  cat,  sleeping  in 
the  editorial  chair  within  three  hours  after  Ed 
departed.  As  for  the  Captain,  he  came  in 
thumping  his  cane  and  clearing  his  throat  with 
something  of  his  old-time  energy,  and  even 
Anthy  wore  a  different  look. 

I  can  see  Nort  yet  leaning  against  the  im 
posing  stone,  one  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  his 
bare  inky  arms  folded  negligently,  his  thick 
hair  tumbling  about  on  his  head — and  amuse 
ment  darkening  in  his  eyes.  Fergus  was 
cocked  up  on  a  stool  by  the  cases  ;  the  Captain, 


^ 

•^ 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"         105 

who  had  just  finished  an  editorial  further 
pulverizing  the  fragments  of  William  J.  Bryan, 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair  comfortably 
smoking  his  pipe ;  and  Anthy,  having  slipped  off 
her  apron,  was  preparing  to  go  home  for  supper. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Nort,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "I  never  imagined  it  would  feel  so 
good  to  be  orfunts." 

The  laugh  which  followed  this  remark  was  as 
irresistible  as  it  was  spontaneous.  It  expressed 
exactly  what  we  all  felt.  I  glanced  at  Anthy. 
She  evidently  considered  it  her  duty  to  frown 
upon  such  disloyalty,  but  couldn't.  She  was 
laughing,  too.  It  seemed  to  break  the  tension 
and  bring  us  all  close  together. 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  how  Nort  had  been 
growing  since  he  came  with  us,  a  mere  vaga 
bond,  to  help  Fergus.  He  had  become  one  of 
us. 

"  Don't  see  how  we're  ever  goin'  to  get  out 
a  paper,"  remarked  Fergus. 

This  bit  of  irony  was  lost  on  the  old  Captain. 

"Fudge!"  he  exclaimed  indignantly.  "Get 
out  a  paper!  We  were  publishing  the  Star  in 
Hempfield  before  ever  Ed  Smith  was  born." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Cap'n— and  Miss 
Doane,"  said  Nort,  "we  ought  to  get  out  a 


io6  HEMPFIELD 

paper  this  week  that  will  show  Ed  a  thing  or 
two,  stir  things  up  a  bit." 

I  saw  Anthy  turn  toward  him  with  a  curious 
live  look  in  her  eyes.  Youth  had  spoken  to 
youth. 

"  We  could  do  it ! "  she  said,  with  unexpected 
energy.  "We  could  just  do  it." 

Nort  unfurled  his  legs  and  walked  nervously 
down  the  office. 

"What  would  you  put  in  her?"  asked  the 
practical  Fergus. 

"Put  in  her!"  exclaimed  Nort.  "What 
couldn't  you  put  in  her?  Put  some  life  in  her, 
I  say.  Stir  things  up." 

"I  have  just  written  an  editorial  on  William 
J.  Bryan,"  remarked  the  Captain  with  de 
liberation. 

"  My  father  always  used  to  say,"  said  Anthy, 
"that  the  little  things  of  life  are  really  the  big 
things.  I  didn't  used  to  think  so;  it  used  to 
hurt  me  to  see  him  waste  his  life  writing  items 
about  the  visits  of  the  Backuses — you  know 
what  visitors  the  Backuses  are — and  the  big 
squashes  raised  by  Jim  Palmer,  and  the  meet- 
ingsof  the  Masons  and  the  Odd  Fellows  ;but  I  be 
lieve  he  was  successful  with  the  Star  because  he 
packed  it  full  of  just  such  little  personal  news." 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"         107 

:'Your  father,"  I  said,  "was  interested  in 
people,  in  everything  they  did.  It  was  what 
he  was." 

"I  see  that  now,"  said  Anthy. 

"And  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,"  I  said, 
"we  are  more  interested  in  people  we  know 
than  in  people  we  don't  know.  We  can't  es 
cape  our  own  neighbourhoods — and  most  of  us 
don't  want  to." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Nort;  "but  it  seems 
to  me  since  I've  been  in  this  town  that  it  is  just 
the  things  that  are  most  interesting  of  all  that 
don't  get  into  the  Star.  Why,  there's  more 
amusing  and  thrilling  news  about  Hempfield 
published  every  day  up  there  on  the  veranda  of 
the  Hempfield  House  than  gets  into  the  Star  in 
a  month.  I  could  publish  a  paper,  at  least  once, 
that  would— 

"I  have  always  said,"  interrupted  the  Cap 
tain,  "that  the  basic  human  interest  was 
politics.  Politics  is  the  life  of  the  people. 
Politics- 
Fergus's  face  cracked  open  with  a  smile. 

"We  might  print  a  few  poems." 

He  said  it  in  such  a  tone  of  ironical  humour 
and  it  seemed  so  absurd  that  we  all  laughed,  ex 
cept  Nort. 


io8  HEMPFIELD 

Nort  stopped  suddenly,  with  his  eyes  gleam 
ing. 

"Why  not,  Fergus?"  he  exclaimed.  "Great 
idea,  Fergus." 

With  that  he  took  up  an  envelope  from  the 
desk. 

"Listen  to  this  now,"  he  said,  "it  came  this 
morning;  the  Cap'n  showed  it  to  me." 

He  read  aloud  with  great  effect: 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  BALLOT 

There  was  a  maiden  all  forlorn, 
Who  milked  a  cow  with  a  crumpled  horn, 
She  churned  the  butter,  and  made  the  cheese, 
And  taught  her  brothers  their  A  B  C's. 

She  worked  and  scrubbed  till  her  back  was  broke, 
And  paid  her  tax,  but  she  couldn't  vote. 
Oh!  you  men  look  wise  and  laugh  us  to  scorn, 
We'll  get  the  ballot  as  sure  as  you're  born. 

"I  can  guess  who  wrote  that!9'  laughed 
Anthy.  "It  was  Sophia  Rhinehart." 

" You're  right,"  said  Nort,  "and  I  say,  print 
it." 

'There's  a  whole  drawer  full  of  poetry  like 
that  here  in  the  desk,"  observed  the  Captain. 

"I'll  tell  you,  let's  print  it  all!"  said  Nort. 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"         109 

'This  town  is  full  of  poetry.  Let's  let  it  out. 
That's  a  part  of  the  life  of  Hempfield  which 
the  Star  hasn't  considered." 

For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  tell  at  the 
moment  whether  Nort  was  joking  or  not,  but 
Fergus  was  troubled  with  no  such  uncertainty. 
He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  poked  down 
the  fire  with  his  thumb,  and  observed : 

"Tain't  poetry." 

Anthy  laughed.  "No,"  she  said,  "it  isn't 
Robert  Burns.  Fergus  measures  everything 
by 'The  Twa  Dogs.'" 

"Whur'll  ye  do  better?"  responded  Fergus. 

"No,"  said  Nort,  warming  up  to  his  argu 
ment  and  convincing  himself,  I  think,  as  he 
went  along,  "but  I  say  it's  interesting,  and  it's 
by  people  in  Hempfield,  and  it's  news.  What 
could  be  a  better  personal  item  than  a  poem  by 
—who  was  it,  Miss  Doane?" 

"Sophia  Rhinehart." 

'The  poet  Sophia !  Think  of  all  of  Sophia's 
cousins  and  uncles  and  aunts,  and  all  the 
people  in  Hempfield,  who  will  be  shocked  to 
know  that  Sophia  has  written  a  poem  on 
woman  suffrage." 

ik That's  what  I  object  to,"  boomed  the  Cap 
tain,  "it's  nonsense." 


no  HEMPFIELD 

As  I  look  back  upon  it  now,  it  seems  absurd, 
the  irresistible  way  in  which  Nort  swept  the  or- 
funts  of  the  Star  before  him  in  his  enthusiasm. 
A  country  newspaper  office  is  one  of  the  most 
democratic  institutions  in  the  world.  The 
whole  force,  from  proprietor  down,  works  to 
gether  and  changes  work.  The  editor  is  also 
compositor,  and  the  compositor  and  office  boy 
are  reporters.  No  one  poses  as  having  any  very 
superior  knowledge,  and  it  sometimes  happens 
that  a  printer,  like  Fergus,  comfortably  draw 
ing  his  regular  wages,  is  better  off  for  weeks 
at  a  time  than  the  harassed  proprietor  him 
self. 

Nort  drew  the  poems,  a  big  disorderly  pack 
age  of  them,  out  of  the  editorial  drawer,  and 
read  some  of  them  aloud  in  his  best  manner, 
his  face  gleaming  with  amusement.  Occasion 
ally  he  would  glance  across  at  Anthy  as  if  for 
approval.  Anthy's  face  was  a  study.  While 
it  was  evident  that  she  was  puzzled  and  un 
certain,  I  could  see  that  Nort  was  carrying 
her  wholly  with  him.  It  was  the  common 
spirit  of  youth,  adventure,  daring — the  com 
mon  joy  of  revolt. 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  the  office 
worked  early  and  late  during  the  next  two  or 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"  in 

three  days  setting  poetry.  We  chose  mostly 
the  short  poems,  including  a  veritable  school 
of  limericks,  and  in  each  case  printed  the  name 
of  the  author  in  good  large  type.  Some  of  the 
verses,  to  judge  by  their  appearance,  must 
have  been  in  the  office  for  several  years — from 
the  days  of  Anthy's  father.  Anthy's  father 
had  never  destroyed  the  verses  sent  to  him;  he 
kept  them,  but  rarely  printed  any  of  them. 
He  had  so  deep  a  fondness  for  human  beings, 
understood  them  so  well,  and  Hempfield  had 
come  to  be  so  much  his  own  family  to  him, 
that  he  kept  all  these  curious  outreachings, 
whether  of  sorrow,  or  humour,  or  of  mere 
empty  exuberance  or  sentimentality.  Often 
he  laughed  at  them — but  he  kept  them.  Anthy 
had  much  the  same  deep  feeling — which  the 
Nort  of  that  time  could  not  have  understood. 
She  felt  that  there  was  something  not  quite 
sound  about  Nort's  brilliant  scheme,  but  when 
she  objected  or  protested  about  some  particular 
poem,  Nort  always  swept  her  away  with  his 
eager,  "Oh,  put  her  in,  put  her  in!" 

For  the  top  of  the  page  Fergus  set  a  heading, 
proofed  it,  and  showed  it  to  Nort. 

"Not  big  enough,"  said  Nort.  "Got  any 
thing  larger?" 


ii2  HEMPFIELD 

Fergus  thought  he  had,  and  presently  re 
turned  with  a  heading  in  regular  poster  type: 

POEMS  OF  HEMPFIELD 

I  can  see  Nort  yet,  holding  it  up  for  us  to 
view,  and  shouting: 

"Bully  boy,  Fergus,  that'll  get  'em!" 

We  introduced  the  poetry  with  a  statement 
that  for  several  years  the  Star  had  received 
poems,  written  by  the  citizens  of  the  town  and 
county,  very  few  of  which  had  been  published. 
We  presented  them  to  our  readers  as  one  ex 
pression  of  the  life,  thought,  and  interests  of 
our  town. 

On  Wednesday — we  went  to  press  Wednes 
day  afternoon- — Nort  came  in  from  dinner  with 
a  broad  smile  on  his  face. 

"Got  another  poem,"  he  said. 

"Humph,"  growled  Fergus,  who  knew  that 
he  would  have  to  set  it  up. 

"I  stopped  at  the  corner  as  I  came  along, 
and  old  John  Tole  was  standing  out  in  front  of 
his  store."  Here  Nort,  thrusting  both  hands 
into  his  rear  trousers  pockets,  leaned  a  little 
back  and  gave  a  perfect  imitation  of  the  fa 
miliar  figure  of  our  town  druggist.  "  '  Mr. 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"         113 

Tole,'  I  said,  'the  Star  is  going  to  print  the 
poems  of  Hempfield  this  week.  Haven't  you 
a  favourite  poem  you  can  put  in?'  Well,  you 
should  have  seen  the  old  fellow  grin.  'Yes/ 
says  he,  'I've  got  a  favour-ite  poem.'  I  asked 
him  what  it  was.  He  kept  on  smiling,  and 
finally  he  said : 

"I  keep  a  plaster,  in  case  of  disaster, 
And  also  a  pill,  in  case  of  an  ill.'" 

Nort  shook  with  laughter. 

"George!  I  wish  you  could  have  heard 
him  repeat  it:  'And  also  a  pi-11  in  case  of  an 
i-11." 

He  had  the  whole  office  laughing  with  him. 

"  I  say,  let's  put  it  in  the  Star!  'John  Tole's 
Favourite  Poem.'  What  do  you  say,  Miss 
Doane?" 

He  stood  there  such  a  figure  of  irresponsible 
and  contagious  youth  as  I  can  never  forget. 

'Tole  hasn't  favoured  the  Star  with  any 
advertising  for  over  twenty  years,"  observed 
the  Captain. 

"We'll  advertise  him,  anyhow,"  said  Nort. 

And  so  it  went  in,  at  a  special  place  in  the 
middle  of  the  page.  Fergus  grumbled  and 
growled,  of  course,  but  was  really  more  inter- 


ii4  HEMPFIELD 

ested  and  excited,  I  think,  than  he  had  been 
before  in  years.  "Fergus's  great  idea,"  "Fer 
gus's  brilliant  thought,"  was  the  way  Nort 
referred  to  the  printing  of  the  poetry.  For 
two  people  so  utterly  unlike,  Fergus  and  Nort 
got  an  extraordinary  amount  of  amusement 
out  of  each  other. 

In  order  to  make  room  for  the  poetry  some 
thing  else,  of  course,  had  to  be  left  out,  and 
partly  by  chance  and  partly  through  the 
antagonism  of  the  Captain,  we  omitted  two 
paragraphs  that  Ed  Smith  had  left  on  the 
stone  for  use  in  the  next  issue  of  the  paper. 
One  was  a  flattering  comment  on  the  new 
electric  light  company  that  was  about  to 
supply  Hempfield  and  other  nearby  towns 
with  current. 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  Fergus,  "we've  had 
enough  electric  light  news  for  a  while." 

"Cut  her  out,  then,"  said  Nort,  as  though 
he  owned  the  paper. 

The  other  was  a  cleverly  worded  paragraph 
about  the  candidacy  of  a  certain  D.  J. 
McCullum  for  the  legislature.  When  the 
Captain  saw  it  he  snorted  with  indigna 
tion. 

"A  regular  old  Democrat!"  he  exclaimed. 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"         115 

"Now   what    was    Ed    Smith    thinking   of— 
putting  a  piece  like  that  in  the  paper?" 

We  little  knew  what  consequences  were 
to  follow  upon  a  matter  so  apparently  trivial 
as  the  omission  of  these  few  sticks  of  type 
from  the  Star. 

At  last  the  forms  were  locked,  and  Nort 
and  Fergus  carried  them  over  to  the  press. 
It  was  an  exciting  occasion.  Fergus  at  the 
press! 

Usually  Fergus  contents  himself  by  going 
about  wearing  his  own  crown  of  stiff  red  hair, 
but  on  press  days  he  takes  down  an  antique 
derby  hat,  the  rim  of  which  long  ago  disap 
peared.  Small  triangular  holes  have  been 
cut  in  the  crown  for  ventilators,  and  the  out 
side  is  decorated  with  dabs  of  vari-coloured 
printer's  ink.  This  bowl  of  a  helmet  Fergus 
sets  upon  his  head,  tilted  a  little  back,  so  that 
he  looks  like  a  dervish.  He  now  selects  a 
long  black  cigar — it  is  only  on  press  days  that 
he  discards  his  precious  pipe — and  having 
lighted  it  holds  it  in  his  mouth  so  that  it 
points  upward  at  an  acute  angle.  He  avoids 
the  smoke  which  would  naturally  rise  into  his 
left  eye  by  inclining  his  head  a  little  to  one 
side.  He  tinkers  the  rollers,  he  examines 


n6  HEMPFIELD 

the  inkwells,  he  tightens  in  the  forms.  He  is 
very  dignified,  very  sententious.  It  is  an  im 
portant  occasion  when  Fergus  goes  to  press. 
At  last,  when  all  is  ready,  Fergus  stands  up 
right  for  a  moment,  a  figure  of  power  and  au 
thority. 

"Let  'er  go,"  he  says  presently. 

Nort  pulls  the  lever:  the  fly  moves  majes 
tically  through  the  air,  the  rollers  clack,  and 
the  very  floor  shakes  with  the  emotion,  the 
pain,  of  producing  a  free  press  in  a  free  coun 
try. 

But  it  is  only  for  one  or  two  impressions. 
Fergus  suddenly  raises  his  hand. 

"Stop  her,  stop  her,"  he  commands,  and 
when  she  has  calmed  down,  Fergus,  comparing 
the  imprint  with  the  form,  and  armed  with 
paste  pot  and  paper,  or  with  block  and  mallet, 
adds  the  final  artistic  touches. 

Sometimes,  sitting  here  in  my  study,  if  I 
am  a  little  lonely,  I  have  only  to  call  up  the 
picture  I  have  of  Fergus  at  the  press,  and  I 
am  restored  and  comforted  by  the  thought 
that  there  are  still  pleasant  and  amusing 
things  in  this  world. 

So  we  printed  off  the  famous  issue  contain 
ing  the  poetry  of  Hempfield — and  folded  and 


CHARIOT  OF  THE  "STAR"         117 

mailed  the  papers.  Nort,  working  like  a 
demon,  was  the  soul  of  the  office.  He  made 
the  work  that  week  seem  more  interesting 
and  important;  he  made  an  adventure  and  a 
romance  out  of  the  common  task  of  a  coun 
try  printing-office. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NORT    AND    ANTHY 

IT  WAS  on  this  night,  after  the  last  copy 
of  the  edition  had  been  disposed  of,  that 
Nort  walked  home  for  the  first  time  with 
Anthy.  He  carried  it  off  perfectly.  When 
she  was  ready  to  go — I  remember  just  how 
she  looked,  her  slight  firm  figure  pausing  with 
hand  on  the  door,  the  flush  of  excitement  and 
interest  still  in  her  face. 

"Good-night,  everybody,"  she  was  saying. 

"Well,  we've  printed  a  paper  this  week, 
anyhow,"  said  Nort. 

Anthy  laughed:  she  had  a  fine  clear  laugh, 

118 


NORT  AND  ANTHY  119 

not  loud,  but  sweet,  the  kind  of  a  laugh  one 
remembers  long  afterward. 

"Hold  on,  Miss  Doane,"  said  Nort,  start 
ing  up  suddenly,  as  if  the  thought  had  just 
occurred  to  him,  "I'm  going  with  you." 

He  jumped  for  his  coat.  Anthy  remained, 
still  without  moving,  at  the  door.  I  chanced 
to  glance  at  Fergus  and  saw  him  bite  down  on 
his  pipe — I  saw  the  scowl  that  darkened  his 
face. 

So  they  went  out  together.  A  moment  later 
I  went  out,  too,  and  as  I  crossed  the  street 
on  my  way  toward  home  I  heard  Anthy's 
voice  through  the  night  air,  no  words,  just 
the  inflection  I  had  come  to  know  so  well, 
and  then  Nort's  laugh.  I  stopped  and  looked 
back  at  the  printing-office,  half  hidden  in  the 
shadows  of  its  garden.  A  dim  light  still 
burned  in  the  window.  I  saw  Fergus  come 
out  and  look  down  the  street  in  the  direction 
that  Nort  and  Anthy  had  gone,  look  thus  for 
some  time,  and  go  in  again.  And  so  I  turned 
again  homeward  for  my  lonely  walk  under 
the  stars. 

Life  has  been  good  to  me,  and  as  I  look 
back  upon  it  no  one  thing  seems  more  pre 
cious  than  the  thought  that  I  have  been  much 


120  HEMPFIELD 

trusted  with  deep  things  in  the  lives  of  other 
men  and  women.  Next  to  living  great  things 
for  one's  self  (we  learn  by  and  by  to  put  that 
aside)  it  is  wonderful  to  be  lived  through.  It 
is  wonderful  to  know  a  human  soul,  and  ask 
nothing  of  it,  nothing  at  all,  save  its  utter  con 
fidence. 

I  know  what  took  place  that  night  when 
Nort  first  walked  home  with  Anthy  almost  as 
well  as  though  I  had  been  with  them.  And 
I  know  how  Fergus  felt,  Fergus  who  had 
known  Anthy's  father,  who  had  seen  Anthy 
grow  up  from  a  slim,  eager,  somewhat  dreamy 
child  to  the  woman  she  was  now. 

What  do  you  suppose  Nort  and  Anthy 
talked  about?  About  themselves?  Not  a 
bit  of  it!  They  began  by  talking  about  the 
Star  and  the  poems  they  had  just  printed  and 
how  Hempfield  would  like  them.  And  Nort, 
taking  fire  from  the  spontaneous  combus 
tion  of  his  own  ideas,  began  to  [talk  as  only 
Nort  can  talk.  He  painted  a  renewed  coun 
try  journalism  in  glowing  language — a  power 
ful  engine  of  public  opinion  emanating  from 
the  country  and  expressing  the  mind,  the 
heart,  the  very  soul,  of  the  people  of  the  land. 
(Nort  had  never  before  in  his  life  spent  two 


NORT  AND  ANTHY  121 

consecutive  months  in  the  country!)  Great 
writers  should  contribute  to  its  columns- 
yes,  by  George,  great  poets,  too! — statesmen 
would  consult  its  opinions,  and  its  editor  (and 
deep  down  inside  Nort  saw  himself  with  in 
comparable  vividness  as  that  very  editor), 
its  editor  would  sway  the  destinies  of  the 
nation.  As  he  talked  he  began  to  swing  his 
arms,  he  increased  his  pace  until  he  was  a 
step  or  two  ahead  of  Anthy,  walking  so  quickly 
at  times  that  she  could  scarcely  keep  up  with 
him.  Apparently  he  forgot  that  she  was  there 
—only  he  didn't  quite.  Apparently  he  was 
talking  impersonally  to  the  tree  tops  and  the 
south  wind  and  the  stars — only  he  wasn't, 
really.  When  they  came  to  the  gate  of  Anthy's 
home,  Nort  walked  straight  past  it  and  did 
not  discover  for  a  moment  or  two  that  Anthy 
had  stopped. 

When  he  came  back  Anthy  was  standing,  a 
dim  figure,  in  the  gateway. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I've  been  doing  all  the 
talking— 

Anthy's   low   laugh    sounded    clear   in    the 
night  air. 

'Your  picture  of  a  reconstructed  country 
newspaper  is  irresistible!" 


122  HEMPFIELD 

"It  could  be  done!"  said  Nort.  "It  could 
be  done  right  here  in  Hempfield.  Brains 
and  energy  will  count  anywhere,  Miss  Doane. 
Why,  we  could  make  the  Hempfield  Star 
one  of  the  most  quoted  journals  in  America— 
or  in  the  world!" 

They  stood  silent  for  a  moment  there  at 
the  gate.  Nort  was  not  looking  at  Anthy,  or 
thought  he  was  not,  but  long  afterward  he 
had  only  to  close  his  eyes,  and  the  whole 
scene  came  back  to  him:  the  dim  old  house 
rising  among  its  trees,  the  wide  sky  and  the 
stars  overhead,  and  the  slight  figure  of  Anthy 
there  in  the  gateway.  And  the  very  odour 
and  feel  of  the  night— 

Anthy  was  turning  to  walk  up  the  pathway. 

"One  week  more,"  said  Nort. 

"One  week  more,"  responded  Anthy. 

Now  there  is  nothing  either  mystical  or 
poetical  about  any  one  of  these  three  words- 
one — week — more — or  about  all  of  them  to 
gether,  and  yet  Nort  once  repeated  them 
for  me  as  though  they  had  some  peculiar 
or  esoteric  significance.  They  merely  meant 
that  there  was  another  week  before  Ed  Smith 
returned.  A  week  is  enough  for  youth! 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    LETTER    TO    LINCOLN 

REACHING  this  point  in  my  narrative 
I  lean  back  in  my  chair — the  coals  are 
dying  down  in  the  fireplace,  Harriet  long  ago 
went  to  bed,  and  the  house  is  silent  with  a 
silence  that  one  can  hear — I  lean  back  and 
think  again  of  that  moment  in  Anthy's  life. 

I  have  before  me  an  open  letter,  a  letter  so 
often  opened  and  so  often  folded  again  that 
the  creases  are  worn  thin.  I  keep  it  in  the 
drawer  of  my  desk  with  a  packet  labelled, 
"Archives  of  the  Star."  There  are  several  of 
the  old  Captain's  editorials,  including  the  one 
entitled  "Fudge,"  and  of  course  the  one  about 
Roosevelt,  a  number  of  Nort's  early  manu- 

123 


i24  HEMPFIELD 

scripts,  Fergus's  version  of  Mark  Twain,  and 
five  letters  in  Anthy's  firm  handwriting. 

This  is  a  very  curious  document,  this  letter 
I  have  before  me.  The  outside  of  the  en 
velope  bears  the  name  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 
and  the  letter  itself  begins:  "Dear  Mr.  Lin 
coln."  It  is  in  Anthy's  hand. 

Ever  since  I  began  writing  this  narrative 
I  have  been  impatient  to  reach  this  moment, 
but  now  that  I  am  here,  I  hesitate.  It  is  no 
common  matter  to  put  down  the  secret  im 
aginings  of  a  woman's  soul. 

We  all  lead  double  lives:  that  which  our 
friends  and  neighbours  know,  and  that  which 
is  invisible  within  us.  Acquaintance  gives 
us  the  outward  aspects  of  our  neighbours, 
with  friendship  we  penetrate  a  little  way  into 
the  deeper  life,  but  when  we  love  there  is  no 
glen  too  secret  for  us,  no  upland  too  elusive, 
and  we  worship  at  the  altars  of  the  eternal 
woods.  Long  before  I  knew  Anthy  well  I 
knew  something  of  her  deeper  life,  something 
more  than  that  which  looked  out  of  her  still 
eyes  or  marked  her  quiet  countenance.  The 
quality  of  Anthy's  silences  were  a  sign :  and 
I  surprised  once  the  look  she  had  when  -,valk- 
ing  alone  in  a  country  road.  People  who  are 


A  LETTER  TO  LINCOLN  125 

shallow,  or  whose  inner  lives  are  harassed  by 
forms  of  fear  ("most  men,"  as  Thoreau  says, 
"live  lives  of  quiet  desperation")  rarely  care 
to  be  silent,  rarely  wish  to  be  alone  with  them 
selves;  but  it  is  the  sign  of  a  noble  nature  that 
it  has  made  terms  with  itself. 

One  of  the  tragedies  of  life,  perhaps  the 
supreme  tragedy,  is  that  we  should  be  unable  to 
follow  those  we  love  to  their  serenest  heights. 
I  once  knew  a  man  who  had  lived  for  twenty 
years  with  a  woman,  and  never  got  beyond 
what  he  could  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  flesh. 
The  gate  to  the  uplands  of  the  soul  long  stood 
open  to  him  (and  stands  open  now  no  more) ; 
he  passed  that  way,  too,  but  he  never  went 
in.  ... 

I  do  not  wish  to  imply  that  Anthy  was  a 
mere  dreamer.  She  was  not,  decidedly;  but 
she  had,  always,  her  places  of  retirement. 
From  a  child  she  had  friends  of  her  own  im 
agining.  The  first  of  them  I  have  already 
referred  to,  a  certain  Richard  and  Rachel  who 
came  out  through  the  wall  near  the  stairway 
in  her  father's  house,  to  be  the  confidants 
of  a  lonely  child.  Others  came  later  as  she 
grew  older.  I  know  the  names  of  some  of 
them,  and  just  what  they  meant  to  Anthy 


126  HEMPFIELD 

at  particular  moments  in  her  life.  They  came 
to  her,  as  friends  come  to  us  in  real  life,  as  we 
are  ripe  for  them. 

It  was  some  time  after  her  father's  death, 
when  she  felt  very  much  alone,  that  Anthy 
wrote  her  first  letter  to  Mr.  Lincoln.  Her 
father  had  made  Lincoln  one  of  the  most 
vivid  characters  of  her  girlhood:  a  portrait 
of  him  hung  over  the  mantel  in  the  living- 
room,  and  there  was  another  at  the  office. 
One  day,  almost  involuntarily,  she  began  a 
letter: 

DEAR  MR.  LINCOLN:  I  wish  you  were  here.  My 
father  knew  you  well  and  trusted  you  more  than  he 
trusted  any  other  man.  He  used  to  say  that  no  other 
American  who  ever  lived  had  such  an  understanding  of 
the  hearts  of  people  as  you  had.  I  think  you  would 
understand  some  of  the  troubles  I  am  now  having  with 
the  Star,  and  that  you  would  help  me  to  be  sensible  and 
strong.  When  I  was  in  college  I  thought  I  had  begun 
to  know  something,  but  since  I  have  come  back  here  I 
feel  like  a  very  small  girl  again.  I  don't  know  enough 
to  run  the  Star,  and  yet  I  cannot  let  it  go 

Once  started,  she  poured  out  her  very  heart 
to  Mr.  Lincoln:  and  having  completed  the 
letter  she  folded  it,  placed  it  in  an  envelope, 


A  LETTER  TO  LINCOLN  127 

on  which  she  wrote  "Abraham  Lincoln,"  and 
going  to  the  mantel  slipped  it  behind  Mr. 
Lincoln's  picture.  Then  she  turned  around 
quickly,  looked  all  about — but  there  was  no 
one  there  to  see.  She  told  me  long  after 
ward  that  it  seemed  at  first  a  little  absurd  to 
be  actually  writing  letters  to  Mr.  Lincoln, 
but  that  it  relieved  her  mind  and  made  her 
feel  more  cheerful  in  her  loneliness.  After 
that  it  became  an  almost  daily  practice  for 
her  to  pour  out  her  thoughts  and  difficulties 
to  Mr.  Lincoln.  And  the  place  behind  the 
portrait  was  the  post  office.  She  said  that 
sometimes  during  the  busiest  parts  of  the  day 
the  thought  would  suddenly  flash  across  her 
mind  that  she  would  tell  Mr.  Lincoln  this  or 
that,  and  it  gave  her  a  curious  deep  sense  of 
comfort.  Each  evening  she  destroyed  the 
letter  she  had  written  on  the  day  before- 
destroyed  them  all,  except  those  which  lie 
here  on  my  desk. 

I  am  sure  that  this  practice  meant  a  great 
deal  in  Anthy's  life.  One  cannot  know  much 
about  any  great  human  being,  think  what  he 
would  do  under  this  or  that  circumstance,  or 
what  he  would  say  if  he  were  here,  without 
coming  to  be  something  like  him.  We  are 


128  HEMPFIELD 

strangely  influenced  in  this  world  by  those 
whom  we  admire  most.  Harriet  and  I  know 
a  little  old  maid — I  have  written  about  her 
elsewhere — who  has  thought  so  much  about 
the  Carpenter  of  Nazareth  that  she  has  come 
to  be  wonderfully  like  Him. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  any  one  to  under 
stand  Anthy,  or,  indeed,  the  life  of  the  Star, 
or  Nort,  without  knowing  of  the  deep  inner 
forces  which  were  influencing  her.  I  know 
now  why  she  maintained  through  all  the 
earlier  days,  those  trying  days,  the  front  of 
quiet  courage. 

And  so  I  come  to  the  letter  open  here  on  my 
desk.  It  is  the  one  that  Anthy  wrote  on  the 
night  that  Nort  went  home  with  her  for  the 
first  time.  It  is  not  a  long  letter,  and  was 
evidently  written  hastily  at  the  little  table  I 
have  so  often  seen,  at  which  I  once  sat  quietly 
for  a  long  time,  where  one  may  easily  glance 
up  at  the  portrait  over  the  mantel.  It  is  the 
first  letter  in  which  she  ever  referred  at  any 
great  length  to  Nort.  And  this  is  the  letter: 

DEAR  MR.  LINCOLN:  Well,  we  have  had  a  wonderful 
day!  We  finished  the  setting  of  the  poetry,  of  which  I 
told  you,  early  in  the  afternoon,  but  the  last  paper  was 
not  folded  until  after  nine  o'clock  this  evening. 


turned  around  quickly—but  there  was  no  one  there  to  set 


A  LETTER  TO  LINCOLN  129 

I  am  uncertain  whether  we  have  done  wisely  or  not. 
My  father  would  never  have  dreamed  of  anything  so 
different,  and  Ed  Smith  will  probably  be  horrified.  We 
may  have  been  too  easily  carried  away  by  our  irre 
pressible  Vagabond,  but  if  I  had  the  decision  to  make 
again,  I  should  do  exactly  what  I  have  done.  It's  a 
sort  of  Declaration  of  Independence! 

Our  Vagabond  came  home  with  me  this  evening. 
Probably  I  should  not  have  let  him,  but  there's  no  harm 
done:  he  didn't  know,  most  of  the  time,  whether  I  was 
with  him  or  he  was  alone.  What  a  dreamer  he  is,  any 
way!  We  started  talking  about  the  Star,  but  no  one 
heavenly  body  will  long  satisfy  him.  He  soon  soared 
away  in  the  blue  firmament,  touched  lightly  upon  a 
constellation  or  two,  and  was  getting  ready  to  settle  the 
problems  of  the  universe — when  we  arrived  at  the  gate. 
I  had  some  trouble  to  get  him  down  to  solid  earth  again. 
He  is  no  tramp  printer,  of  that  I  am  certain.  He  has 
completely  won  over  Uncle  Newt,  and  his  way  with 
Fergus  passeth  understanding.  Fergus  trots  around 
like  a  collie  dog,  rather  cross,  but  faithful.  David  looks 
at  him  with  that  contemplative,  humorous,  philo 
sophical  expression  he  has,  and  isn't  the  least  bit  fooled. 
As  for  me,  what  shall  I  do  with  him  and  Ed  Smith  and 
Uncle  Newt  all  in  the  office  together!  One  can  see  that 
he  has  some  fine  qualities  and  impractical  ideas — only  he 
needs  some  one  to  take  care  of  him  and  keep  him  out  of 
mischief.  He  deserves  the  comment  which  Miss  Bacon, 
our  Latin  professor,  used  to  make  in  her  dry  way  about 
some  of  the  men  who  called  on  the  girls  at  college: 
"Very  interesting,  very  interesting,  but  very  young." 


i3o  HEMPFIELD 

What  a  spectacle  he  was  when  he  came  to  us  first !  It  is  a 
pity  that  a  man  like  that,  so  full  of  ideas  and  enthusiasm, 
should  be  so  irresponsible!  He  has  a  very  fine  head  and 
really  wonderful  eyes! 

To-morrow   promises   to   be   an   interesting   day.     I 
wonder  what  we  shall  hear  from  our  poetry! 

Your  friend, 

A.  D. 


I  have  always  thought  that  Nort  was  a 
little  abashed  at  the  way  in  which  he  talked 
to  Anthy  on  that  first  evening,  though  he 
never  admitted  it  in  so  many  words.  And 
an  incident  occurred  the  next  day  that  caused 
him  to  take  a  new  attitude  toward  her.  Up 
to  this  time  he  had  treated  her  just  like  any 
other  member  of  the  staff,  with  easy,  off-hand 
freedom.  One  of  the  visitors  inquired: 

"  May  I  see  the  proprietor  of  the  Star  ? ' 

Fergus  replied:  "Miss  Doane  will  be  here 
in  a  few  minutes." 

It  struck  Nort  all  in  a  heap.  She  was  the 
proprietor,  and,  therefore,  his  employer.  It 
gave  him  a  curious,  and  rather  unpleasant, 
twinge  inside  somewhere;  yes,  and  it  hurt  a 
little,  but  wound  up  by  being  irresistibly  funny. 
She  was  his  "boss,"  this  girl,  she  actually  paid 
him  his  wages.  She  could  discharge  him, 


A  LETTER  TO  LINCOLN  131 

too,  by  George!  He  stopped  suddenly  and 
went  off  into  a  wild  shout  of  laughter.  Fergus 
took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  held  it  a  mo 
ment  while  he  looked  Nort  over,  and  then, 
slowly  nodding  his  head  but  saying  never  a 
word,  put  it  back  again. 

Now,  if  there  was  anything  in  this  world 
that  irked  the  Nort  of  those  days  it  was  the 
feeling  of  restraint,  of  being  reined  in.  All 
that  day,  in  spite  of  varied  excitements  which 
followed  the  publication  of  the  poetry,  Nort 
wasovercome  from  time  to  time  by  the  thought 
of  Anthy  as  his  "boss,"  and,  in  spite  of  all 
he  could  do,  there  were  other  feelings,  curious, 
inexplicable  feelings,  mingled  with  the  amuse 
ment  he  felt. 

It  was  inevitable  that  Nort  should  some 
how  act  upon  the  impulse  of  this  new  thought. 
His  eager  mind  played  with  it,  suggesting  a 
thousand  amusing  plans.  Here  was  a  situa 
tion  that  had  possibilities. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Nort  sud 
denly  pretended  to  be  out  of  a  job,  and  walk 
ing  up  to  Anthy's  desk  he  stood  up  very 
straight  and  stiff,  and  pulling  at  a  lock  of  hair 
over  his  forehead,  said  very  respectfully: 

"  What  shall  I  do  next,  miss?" 


132  HEMPFIELD 

Anthy  glanced  up  at  him.  It  rather  of 
fended  his  vanity  that  she  seemed  so  surprised 
to  see  him  there.  Evidently  he  was  very  far 
from  her  thoughts.  His  face  was  as  sober 
and  as  blank  as  the  face  of  nature,  but  Anthy 
saw  the  spark  in  his  eyes — and  the  challenge 
—though  she  did  not  know  exactly  what  he 
meant. 

He  pulled  his  forelock  again,  and  in  a 
voice  still  more  subdued  and  respectful,  re 
peated: 

"What  shall  I  do  next,  miss?" 

There  was  a  slightly  higher  colour  in  An- 
thy's  face,  but  she  looked  squarely  into  his 
eyes  and  said  quietly: 

"You'd  better  help  Fergus  clean  up  the 
press." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  puzzled 
wonder  and  chagrin  in  Nort's  face  as  he  turned 
away.  Anthy  went  back  to  her  work  with 
apparent  unconcern. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    WONDERFUL    DAY 

THOUGH  I  live  to  be  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  old,  which  heaven  forbid,  I  shall 
never  forget  the  events  which  followed  upon 
the  historic  publication  of  the  Poems  of  Hemp- 
rield.  I  wonder  if  you  have  ever  awakened 
in  the  morning  with  a  curious  deep  sense  of 
having  some  peculiar  reason  for  being  happy? 
You  lie  half  awake  for  a  moment  wondering 
what  it  can  all  be  about,  and  then  it  comes 
suddenly  and  vividly  alive  for  you.  It  was 
so  with  me  on  that  morning,  and  I  thought  of 
the  adventures  of  the  printing-office,  and  of 

133 


134  HEMPFIELD 

Anthy  and  Nort  and  Fergus  and  the  old 
Captain. 

"Surely,"  I  said  to  myself,  "no  one  ever 
had  such  friends  as  I  have!" 

I  thought  what  an  amusing  world  this  was, 
anyway,  how  full  of  captivating  people.  And 
I  whistled  all  the  way  down  the  stairs,  clean 
forgetting  that  this  was  contrary  to  one  of 
Harriet's  most  stringent  rules;  and  when  I 
went  out  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  country 
side  never  looked  more  beautiful  at  dawn 
than  it  did  on  that  morning. 

At  Barton's  Crossing  on  my  way  to  town 
I  could  see  the  silvery  spire  of  the  Congre 
gational  Church,  and  at  the  hill  beyond  the 
bridge  all  Hempfield  lay  before  me,  half  hidden 
in  trees,  with  friendly  puffs  of  breakfast  smoke 
rising  from  many  chimneys;  and  when  I 
reached  the  gate  of  the  printing-office  the 
sun  was  just  looking  around  the  corner,  and 
there  in  the  doorway,  as  fresh  and  confident 
as  you  please,  stood  that  rascal  of  a  Norton 
Carr,  whistling  a  little  tune  and  looking  out 
with  a  cocky  eye  upon  the  world  of  Hemp- 
field. 

"Hello,  David!"  he  called  out  when  he  saw 
me. 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  135 

" Hello,  Nort!"  I  responded;  "it's  a  won 
derful  morning." 

He  took  a  quick  step  forward  and  clapped 
me  on  the  shoulder  as  I  came  up. 

"Exactly  what  I've  been  thinking,"  he 
said  eagerly,  "and  it's  going  to  be  a  wonderful 
day." 

If  ever  youth  and  joy-of-life  spoke  in  a 
human  voice,  they  spoke  that  morning  in 
Nort's.  I  cannot  convey  the  sudden  sense 
it  gave  me  of  the  roseate  illusion  of  adventure. 
It  ivas  going  to  be  a  wonderful  day! 

I  think  Nort  confidently  expected  to  see  a 
long  line  of  people  gathering  in  front  of  the 
office  that  morning  clamouring  to  buy  extra 
copies  of  the  Star. 

He  had  been  so  positive  that  the  appear 
ance  of  the  poetry  would  stir  Hempfield  to 
its  depths  that  he  had  urged  the  publication 
of  a  large  extra  edition.  But  the  Captain 
assured  him  that  the  only  thing  that  ever 
really  produced  an  extra  sale  of  the  Star  was  a 
"big  obituary."  In  its  palmy  days,  when 
the  Captain  let  himself  go,  and  the  deceased 
was  really  worthy  of  the  Captain's  facile  and 
flowery  pen,  the  Star  had  sold  as  many  as  two 
hundred  extra  papers.  It  was  as  much  a 


136  HEMPFIELD 

part  of  any  properly  conducted  funeral  in 
Hempfield  to  buy  copies  of  the  Captain's 
obituaries — the  same  issue  also  containing 
the  advertised  thanks  of  the  family  to  the 
friends  who  had  been  with  them  in  their  sore 
bereavement — as  it  was  for  the  choir  to  sing 
"Lead,  Kindly  Light." 

Fergus,  especially,  jeered  at  the  proposal 
of  an  extra  edition.  It  was  not  the  money 
loss  that  disturbed  Fergus,  for  that  would  be 
next  to  nothing  at  all,  it  was  the  thought  of 
being  stampeded  by  Nort's  enthusiasm,  and 
afterward  hearing  the  sarcastic  comments  of 
Ed  Smith.  While  this  heated  controversy 
was  going  on,  Anthy  quietly  ordered  the 
paper — and  we  printed  the  extra  copies. 

All  that  morning  I  saw  Nort  glancing  from 
time  to  time  out  of  the  window.  No  line 
appeared.  Nine  o'clock — and  no  line — not 
even  one  visitor!  Nort  fidgeted  around  the 
press,  emptied  the  wastebasket,  looked  at  his 
watch.  Ten  o'clock- 
Steps  on  the  porch — soft,  hesitating  steps. 
Out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  I  could  see  Nort 
stiffen  up  and  his  face  begin  to  glow.  A  little 
barefooted  boy  edged  his  way  in  at  the  door. 
We  all  looked  around  at  him.  I  confess  that 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  137 

Nort  was  not  the  only  one  who  was  expectant. 
When  you  have  fired  a  big  gun  you  want  to 
knowr  that  the  shot  hit  somewhere!  The  boy 
was  evidently  embarrassed  by  the  battery  of 
eyes  levelled  at  him. 

''Sister  wants  two  papers,"  said  he  finally. 
"She  says,  the  papers  with  the  po'try." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  sight  of  Nort,  head 
in  air,  marching  over  to  the  pile  of  extras, 
grandly  handing  two  of  them  to  our  customer, 
and  then  walking  triumphantly  across  the 
room  and  delivering  the  dime  to  Anthy. 

"Who  was  that  now?"  asked  Nort,  when 
the  little  chap  went  out. 

"That,"  said  Anthy,  "was  Sophia  Rhine- 
heart's  brother." 

Nort  clapped  his  hand  dramatically  to 
his  head. 

'The  false  Sophia!"  he  exclaimed;  "I 
expected  that  Sophia  would  want  at  least 
fifty  copies  of  the  journal  which  has  made 
her  famous." 

The  next  incident  was  even  more  disquiet 
ing.  An  old  man  named  Johnson  came  to 
put  a  twenty-cent  advertisement  in  the  paper 
'Ten  Cords  of  Wood  for  Sale"  —and  it 
appeared,  after  an  adroit  question  by  Nort, 


138  HEMPFIELD 

that,  although  he  had  received  that  week's 
paper,  he  did  not  even  know  that  we  had 
published  the  Poems  of  Hempfield. 

Nort's  spirits  began  to  drop,  as  his  face 
plainly  showed.  Like  many  young  men  who 
start  out  to  set  the  world  afire,  he  was  finding 
the  kindling  wood  rather  damp.  Just  before 
noon,  however,  answering  a  telephone  call, 
we  saw  his  eyes  brighten  perceptibly. 

'Thank  you,"  he  was  saying.  'Ten,  did 
you  say?  All  right,  you  shall  have  them. 
Glad  you  called  early  before  they  are  all 
gone." 

He  put  down  the  receiver,  smiling  broadly. 

"There,"  he  said,  "it's  started!" 

"Humph,"  grunted  Fergus,  and  Anthy, 
leaning  back  on  her  stool,  laughed  merrily. 

But  Nort  refused  to  be  further  depressed. 
If  things  did  not  happen  of  themselves  in 
Hempfield,  why  he  was  there  to  make  them 
happen.  When  he  went  out  at  noon  he  began 
asking  everybody  he  met,  at  the  hotel,  at 
the  post  office,  at  the  livery  stable,  whether 
they  had  seen  the  Star  that  week.  Nort 
had  then  been  in  Hempfield  about  four  months, 
and  the  town  had  begun  to  enjoy  him — rather 
nervously,  because  it  was  never  quite  certain 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  139 

what  he  would  do  next.  In  Hempfield  almost 
everybody  was  working  for  the  approval  of 
everybody  else,  which  no  one  ever  attains; 
while  Nort  never  seemed  to  care  whether 
anybody  approved  him  or  not. 

"Seen  the  Star  this  week?"  he  asked  Joe 
Crane,  the  liveryman,  apparently  controlling 
his  excitement  with  difficulty. 

"No,"  says  Joe.     "Why?" 

"It's  the  biggest  issue  we  ever  had.  We 
are  printing  the  poems  of  all  the  poets  of 
Hempfield." 

Joe  paused  to  consider  a  moment,  while 
Nort  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  Didn't  know  they  was  any  poets  in  Hemp- 
field,"  observed  Joe  finally. 

"Why,"  says  Nort,  "Hempfield  has  more 
poets  than  any  town  of  its  size  in  America." 

Now,  Joe  took  the  Star  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  advertised  in  it,  too: 

JOSEPH  CRANE 
LIVERY,  FEED  AND  SALE  STABLE 

but,  rarely  expecting  to  find  anything  in 
the  paper  but  the  local  news,  which  he  knew 
already,  he  had  unfortunately  used  the  Poems 
ol  Hempfield  for  cleaning  harness. 


140  HEMPFIELD 

After  Nort's  exciting  visit  he  crossed  over 
and  borrowed  a  somewhat  sticky  copy  which 
Nathan  Collins,  the  baker,  was  saving  to 
wrap  bread  in,  and  glancing  over  the  Poems 
of  Hempfield,  discovered  that  Addison  Bird 
of  Hawleyville  had  written  one  of  them,  a 
poem  entitled  "Just  Plant  One  Tree,  Boys," 
which  he  had  once  read  at  the  Grange. 

Joe  bought  hay  of  Ad,  and  the  idea  that 
Ad  was  a  poet  struck  Joe  as  being  an  irre 
sistible  piece  of  humour.  He  told  everybody 
who  came  in  during  the  day,  and  even  called 
Ad  on  the  telephone  to  joke  him  about  it. 
Ad  had  not  heard  of  it  yet,  and  immediately 
hitched  up  and  drove  into  town,  not  knowing 
whether  to  be  pleased  or  angry.  He  met  Nort 
at  the  gate  of  the  printing-office,  and  was 
received  by  that  young  editor  with  a  warm 
handshake  and  congratulations  upon  appear 
ing  in  what  was  undoubtedly  the  most  inter 
esting  issue  of  a  newspaper  ever  published  in 
Westmoreland  County.  The  upshot  of  it 
was  that  Ad  paid  up  his  long  delinquent 
subscription,  and  went  away  with  quite  a 
bundle  of  extra  copies. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  in  this  world  how  few 
people  recognize  a  thing  as  wonderful  or  beau- 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  141 

tiful  until  some  poet  or  prophet  comes  along 
to  tell  them  that  it  is  wonderful  or  beautiful. 

"Behold  that  sunset!"  cries  the  poet,  quite 
beside  himself  with  excitement,  and  the  world, 
which  has  been  accustomed  to  having  sunsets 
every  evening  for  supper,  and  thinks  nothing 
of  them,  suddenly  looks  up  and  discovers  un 
known  splendours. 

"Behold  the  Star"  cried  Nort,  rushing 
wildly  about  Hempfield.  "See  what  we've 
got  in  the  Star" — and  it  spread  through  the 
town  that  something  unusual,  wonderful,  was 
happening  in  the  hitherto  humdrum  office  in 
the  little  old  building  back  from  the  street. 

People  did  not  know  quite  what  to  make  of 
the  publication  of  the  poetry,  it  was  so  unprec 
edented,  and  the  result  was  that  we  soon 
found  the  whole  town  discussing  the  Star. 
The  interest  cropped  up  in  the  most  unex 
pected  places,  and  developed  a  number  of 
very  amusing  incidents.  We  had  lifted  a 
little  new  corner  of  the  veil  of  life  in  Hemp- 
field,  and  we  had  Nort  to  tell  us  how  wonderful 
and  amusing  it  was.  Not  everybody  liked 
it — for  life,  everywhere  and  always,  arouses 
opposition  as  well  as  approval — -and  one  man 
even  came  in  to  cancel  his  subscription  be- 


142  HEMPFIELD 

cause  he  thought  he  found  unfavourable  refer 
ences  to  himself  in  one  of  the  poems;  but,  on 
the  whole,  people  were  interested  and  amused. 

With  all  his  enthusiasm,  Nort  got  no  more 
satisfaction  out  of  the  events  of  the  week  than 
the  old  Captain.  On  Saturday  afternoons, 
when  the  farmers  came  to  town,  the  Captain 
loved  to  stroll  up  the  street  in  a  leisurely  way, 
pass  a  word  here  and  there  with  his  neighbours, 
and  generally  enjoy  himself.  I  always  loved 
to  see  him  on  such  occasions — his  fine  old 
face,  his  long  rusty  coat,  the  cane  which  was 
at  once  the  sceptre  of  his  dominion  and  the 
support  of  his  age. 

Upon  this  particular  afternoon  he  had  the 
consciousness  of  having  written  a  truly  scorch 
ing  editorial  on  William  J.  Bryan,  as  trench 
ant  a  thing — the  Captain  loved  "trechant" 
as  ever  he  wrote  in  his  life,  and  when  people 
began  to  speak  to  him  about  that  week's 
issue  of  the  Star,  it  pleased  him  greatly.  It 
was  a  great  issue ! 

Mr.  Tole,  the  druggist,  for  example,  who 
was  secretly  much  gratified  with  the  publica 
tion  of  his  favourite  poem,  which  he  shrewdly 
considered  excellent  free  advertising,  re 
marked: 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  143 

"Had  a  great  paper  this  week,  Cap'n." 

The  old  Captain  responded  with  dignity: 
'The  Star,  Mr.  Tole,  is  looking  up." 

How  sweet  was  all  this  to  the  old  Captain. 
For  so  long  the  current  had  been  setting  against 
him,  there  had  been  so  little  of  the  feeling 
of  success  and  power,  which  he  loved.  We 
could  distinguish  the  triumphant  notes  in  the 
Captain's  voice  when  he  returned  to  the  office. 
He  sat  down  in  the  editorial  chair  with  a 
special  air  of  confidence. 

"Anthy,"  he  said,  clearing  his  throat. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Newt." 

"Anthy,  I  have  hopes  of  Hempfield.  Even 
in  these  days,  when  the  people  seem  to  be  going 
off  after  false  gods,  the  truth  will  prevail." 

He  paused. 

"We  are  beginning  to  hear  from  our  edi 
torial  on  William  J.  Bryan." 

I  recall  yet  Anthy's  laugh — the  amusement 
of  it,  and  yet  the  deep  sympathy. 

The  Captain's  eye  fell  upon  Nort.  He 
looked  him  over  affectionately. 

"Nort,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "we're  printing 
a  newspaper." 

"We  are,  Cap'n,"  responded  Nort  heartily, 
but  with  a  glint  in  his  eyes. 


i44  HEMPFIELD 

I  saw  the  swift,  grateful  look  that  Anthy 
gave  him. 

But  the  old  Captain's  mood  suddenly 
changed.  It  is  in  the  time  of  triumph  that 
we  sometimes  find  our  sorrows  most  poignant. 
He  began  to  shake  his  big  shaggy  head. 

"Ah,  Nort,"  said  he,  "one  thing  only  takes 
the  heart  out  of  me." 

"What's  that,  Cap'n?"  asked  Nort,  though 
we  all  knew  well  enough. 

"  If  only  the  Colonel  had  not  left  us,  I  could 
put  my  very  soul  into  the  work.  I  could 
write  wonderful  editorials,  Nort." 

If  there  was  one  subject  besides  flying 
machines  and  Democrats — and  possibly  wo 
man  suffrage — upon  which  the  old  Captain  was 
irreconcilable,  it  was  Colonel  Roosevelt.  He 
had  never  followed  or  loved  any  leader  since 
Lincoln  as  he  had  followed  and  loved  Roose 
velt,  and  when  the  Colonel  "went  astray," 
as  he  expressed  it,  it  affected  him  like  some 
great  personal  sorrow.  It  went  so  deep  with 
him  that  he  had  never  yet  been  able  to  write 
an  editorial  upon  the  subject.  "Why,"  he 
had  said  to  Anthy,  "I  loved  him  like  a 
brother!" 

"Never  mind,  Cap'n,"  said  Nort.     "Some 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  145 

of  these  days  you'll  tell  us  what  you  think 
about  the  Colonel." 

The  Captain  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"No,  Nort,"  said  he,  "it  goes  too  deep,  it 
goes  too  deep." 

With  that  he  turned  to  his  desk  with  a 
heavy  sigh  and  began  opening  the  week's 
exchanges,  and  we  knew  that  he  would  soon 
fall  upon  Brother  Kendrick  of  the  Sterling 
Democrat  and  smite  him  hip  and  thigh.  If 
the  Colonel  were  no  longer  with  him,  still  his 
head  was  bloody  but  unbowed — and  he  would 
fight  on  to  the  end.  But  the  seed  dropped 
by  Nort — "You'll  tell  us  what  you  think 
about  the  Colonel  some  of  these  days" — did 
not  fall  on  wholly  barren  soil.  It  produced, 
indeed,  a  growth  of  such  luxuriance — but  of 
all  that,  in  its  proper  place. 

Well,  we  disposed  of  every  extra  copy  of 
the  paper  we  had  printed,  and  actually  had 
to  run  off  some  reprints  and  slips  containing 
the  Poems  of  Hempfield,  of  which  we  also 
sold  quite  a  number. 

How  we  all  need  just  a  little  success!  To 
the  editors  of  a  country  newspaper,  who 
publish  week  after  week  for  months  without 
so  much  as  a  ripple  of  response,  all  this  was 


146  HEMPFIELD 

most  exciting  and  interesting — yes,  intoxicat 
ing. 

Considered  as  a  business  venture,  of  course, 
or  measured  in  exact  financial  returns,  it 
may  seem  small  enough.  Indeed,  Ed  Smith 
said—  But  can  we  ever  measure  the  best 
things  in  life  by  their  financial  returns?  Con 
sidered  as  a  human  experience,  a  fresh  and 
charming  adventure  in  life,  it  glows  yet  in  my 
memory  with  a  glory  all  its  own. 

The  effect  upon  Nort  was  curious  enough. 
At  one  moment  the  amusing  aspects  of  the 
adventure  seemed  uppermost  with  him,  and 
I  felt  that  he  was  laughing  at  all  of  us,  using 
us  all,  using  the  town  of  Hempfield,  for  his 
lordship's  amusement;  and  at  the  next  mo 
ment  he  seemed  seriously  entangled  in  the 
meshes  of  his  own  enthusiasm.  It  was  a 
time  of  transition  and  development  for  Nort. 

Part  of  his  reckless  spirits  at  this  time  I 
am  sure  was  due  to  the  passage  of  arms  with 
Anthy,  which  I  have  already  described.  He 
had  been  curiously  piqued  by  her  attitude, 
and  by  the  thought  that  she  was  actually  his 
employer  and  could  discharge  him.  It  did 
not  correspond  with  his  preconceived  views  of 
life  nor  with  his  conception  of  the  place  that 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  147 

women  should  occupy  in  the  cosmos.  Not 
that  Nort  had  ever  been  profoundly  interested 
in  women,  not  he !  He  had  played  with  them, 
indeed,  for  he  had  belonged  to  that  class, 
sometimes  called  the  favoured,  in  which  men 
rarely  work  with  women,  or  study  with  them, 
or  think  with  them.  While  he  did  not  try 
to  explain  his  emotions  to  himself,  he  had 
been  disconcerted  by  Anthy's  perfectly  direct 
ways,  by  being  treated  simply  as  a  human 
being,  a  coworker,  not  as  though  he  were  all 
man  and  she  all  woman,  and  nothing  else 
mattered. 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  exuberant  amuse 
ment,  combined  with  challenge  to  Anthy, 
that  he  wrote  his  absurd  report  (which  was 
never  printed)  of  the  effect  of  the  publica 
tion  of  the  poems  upon  Hempfield,  and  read 
it  aloud  one  evening  with  great  dramatic 
effect — keeping  one  eye  on  Anthy  where  she 
sat,  half  in  shadow,  at  her  desk. 

"Poets,"  wrote  Nort,  "were  seen  congratu 
lating  or  commiserating  one  another  upon  the 
public  streets,  whole  families  were  electrified 
by  discovering  that  they  had  a  poet  in  their 
midst  without  knowing  it,  wives  were  revealed 
to  husbands  and  husbands  to  wives,  and  even 


148  HEMPFIELD 

the  little  children  of  Hempfield  began  to  lisp 
in  measures." 

There  was  much  more  in  the  same  strain, 
indicating  that  Nort  was  still  laughing  at  us, 
instead  of  with  us.  But  Anthy  sat  there  in 
the  shadow,  very  still,  and  said  nothing. 
When  in  repose  Anthy's  face  seemed  often  to 
take  on  a  cast  of  sadness,  especially  about  the 
eyes,  of  that  sadness  and  sweetness  which 
so  often  go  with  strength  and  nobility  of 
spirit.  She  was  very  beautiful  that  night, 
I  thought. 

I  did  not  know  as  well  then  as  I  came  to 
know  afterward,  what  a  struggle  she  was 
facing  to  save  the  Star,  what  she  had  sacri 
ficed  to  keep  green  the  memory  of  her  father 
and  to  cherish  the  old  Captain.  And  she 
had  a  love  for  Hempfield  and  Hempfield  folk 
that  Nort  could  not  have  guessed.  Life 
might  be  a  huge  joke  to  Nort,  who  had  never, 
up  to  this  time,  in  all  his  life,  had  to  fight  or 
suffer  for  anything — but  Anthy,  Anthy  was 
already  meeting  the  great  adventure. 

But  there  was  another  and  a  deeper  Nort, 
which  few  people  at  that  time  had  ever  seen. 
This  was  the  Nort  who  had  fled  impulsively 
from  New  York,  and  this  was  the  Nort  who 


THE  WONDERFUL  DAY  149 

now  strode  out  along  the  country  roads  to 
ward  Hawleyville,  his  head  hot  with  great 
thoughts.  This  was  the  Nort  who  was  tast 
ing  the  sweets  of  editorship,  who  had  more 
than  half  begun  to  believe  what  he  had  told 
Anthy,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  when  he 
walked  home  with  her.  Why  not  a  wonderful 
new  country  journalism?  Why  not  a  paper 
right  in  Hempfield  which,  by  virtue  of  its 
profound  thought,  its  matchless  wit,  its  charm 
ing  humour,  its  saving  sympathy,  its  superb 
handling  of  great  topics,  its — its—  Why 
not?  And  why  not  Norton  Carr,  editor? 

"Matchless"  was  the  adjective  that  Nort 
had  in  his  mind  at  the  moment,  and  he  im 
agined  a  typical  comment  in  the  New  York 
Times: 

"We  quote  this  week  from  the  Hempfield 
Star,  that  matchless  exponent  of  rural  thought 
in  America,  edited  by  Mr.  Norton  Carr— 
etc.,  etc. 

This  would  naturally  be  copied  in  the  Lit 
erary  Digest  and  made  the  subject  of  an  edi 
torial  in  Life. 

This  was  the  Nort  who  walked  the  country 
roads,  neither  seeing  the  stars  above  nor  feel 
ing  the  clods  beneath,  but  living  in  a  fairer 


150  HEMPFIELD 

land  than  this  is,  the  perfect  spring  weather 
of  the  soul  of  youth.  It  was  thus  that  Nort 
lived  his  deeper  life,  as  the  hero  of  his  own  hot 
imaginings. 

And  this,  too,  was  the  Nort  who  returned 
to  Hempfield — without  any  conscious  inten 
tion  on  his  part,  for  how  can  one  think  of  two 
things  at  once — by  the  road  which  led  past 
Anthy's  home.  He  did  not  stop,  he  scarcely 
looked  around,  and  yet  he  had  an  intense 
and  vivid  undersense  of  a  dim  light  in  one  of 
the  upper  windows  of  the  dark  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN    WHICH    GREAT    PLANS    ARE     EVOLVED,    AND 
THERE    IS    A    SURPRISING    EVENT 

SINCE  we  had  come  to  know  the  Star, 
Sunday  afternoons  were  important  oc 
casions  for  Harriet  and  me.  Nort  was  the 
first  to  visit  us — soon  after  he  came  to  Hemp- 
field — but  the  old  Captain  and  Anthy  were 
not  many  Sundays  behind  him.  They  usu 
ally  drove  out  with  one  of  Joe  Crane's  horses 
(charged  against  advertising  in  the  Star), 
and  on  such  occasions  the  Captain  was  very 
grand  in  his  long  coat  and  wide  hat — and 
gloves.  He  always  greeted  Harriet  with  chiv- 


152  HEMPFIELD 

alrous  formality,  inquired  after  her  health, 
and  usually  had  some  bit  of  old-fashioried 
gallantry  to  offer  her,  which  always  bothered 
her  just  a  little,  especially  if  she  happened  at 
the  moment  to  catch  my  eye.  I  had  great 
trouble  getting  Fergus  to  come  at  all;  but 
having  once  lured  him  out,  Harriet's  ginger 
bread  soon  finished  him. 

At  first  there  was  an  amusing  struggle 
between  Harriet  and  Fergus,  in  which,  of 
course,  that  Scotchman  came  off  second  best 
—and  never  knew  that  he  was  beaten!  You 
see,  Fergus  is  never  entirely  happy  unless  he 
can  tip  back  in  his  chair,  until  you  are  certain 
he  is  going  over  backward  and  smash  the 
door  of  the  china  closet.  Also,  he  smokes 
the  worst  tobacco  in  the  world.  On  the 
occasion  of  his  second  visit  he  went  prowling 
around  the  room  for  a  straight-back  chair  to 
sit  in,  but  Harriet  shooed  him  irresistibly 
toward  an  effeminate  rocker,  where  he  could 
gratify  his  instinct  for  tipping  back,  and  not 
endanger  the  family  china. 

During  the  week  that  followed  Harriet 
made  a  scientific  study  of  the  drafts  in  our 
living-room  (that  is,  I  think  she  did),  and 
on  the  next  Sunday  she  not  only  shooed 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      153 

Fergus  into  a  rocker,  but  that  rocker  was 
so  placed  near  the  window  that  the  tobacco 
smoke  was  drawn  straight  out  of  the  room. 
After  that,  she  made  Fergus  so  comfortable 
within  and  without — especially  within — that 
he  thought  her  a  very  wonderful  woman. 
As  she  is. 

As  for  Harriet  and  me,  these  Sunday  gath 
erings — which  often  included  the  Scotch 
preacher,  or  our  neighbour  Horace,  or,  rarely, 
the  Starkweathers — these  visits  were  delight 
ful  beyond  comparison.  By  Saturday  night 
there  was  not  a  speck  of  dust  in  the  house 
that  was  visible  to  the  naked  eye,  and  by  three 
o'clock  Sunday  (if  there  was  no  one  in  to  din 
ner)  Harriet  and  I  began  an  unacknowledged 
contest  to  see  which  of  us  would  be  the  first  to 
catch  sight  of  the  visitors  coming  up  the  town 
road  or  across  the  fields.  We  both  pretended 
we  weren't  looking — but  we  were. 

It  was  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  following 
the  publication  of  the  poetry,  just  after  I  had 
come  in  from  the  barn,  that  I  saw  Nort  com 
ing  down  the  lane  which  skirts  the  edge  of  the 
wood.  He  had  a  stick  in  his  hand  with  which 
he  struck  at  the  foliage  of  the  hazel  brush  or 
decapitated  a  milkweed. 


154  HEMPFIELD 

"There's  Nort!"  I  exclaimed. 

It  was  miraculous  to  see  Harriet  twitch 
off  her  apron  and,  with  two  or  three  deft  pats, 
arrange  her  hair. 

When  Nort  saw  us,  for  we  couldn't  help 
going  outside  to  meet  him,  he  raised  one 
hand,  shouting: 

"Hello,  there,  David!" 

I  remember  thinking  what  a  boy  he  looked. 
Not  large,  not  very  strong,  but  with  a  lithe 
swinging  step  and  an  odd  tilt  of  the  head,  a 
little  backward,  as  though  he  were  looking 
up  for  the  joy  of  it.  I  felt  my  heart  rising 
and  warming  at  the  very  sight  of  him. 

"Well,  Miss  Grayson,"  said  he,  coming 
up  the  steps,  "have  you  decided  yet  whether 
you  and  David  are  most  indebted  to  the 
Macintoshes  or  the  Scribners?" 

There  was  laughter  in  his  eyes  as  he  shook 
Harriet's  hand,  and  I  could  see  the  faint  flush 
in  her  cheeks  and  the  little  positive  nod  of 
the  head  she  had  when  she  was  most  pleased, 
and  didn't  want  it  to  appear  too  plainly. 
Nort  had  long  ago  discovered  her  undying 
passion  for  her  ancestors,  and  already  knew 
the  complete  record  of  that  Macintosh  who 
was  an  officer  in  the  Colonial  army,  and  who, 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      155 

if  one  were  to  judge  by  Harriet's  account, 
was  the  origin  of  all  the  good  traits  of  the 
Grayson  family. 

When  Harriet  is  especially  pleased  with 
any  one,  particularly  if  he  is  a  man,  she  thinks 
at  once  that  he  must  be  hungry;  and  no  sooner 
were  the  greetings  well  over  than  she  escaped 
to  the  kitchen. 

Nort  at  once  put  on  a  portentous  look  of 
solemn  concern,  his  face  changing  so  quickly 
that  it  was  almost  comical. 

"David,"  said  he,  "here  we  are  right  up 
to  another  issue,  and  no  ideas." 

He  spoke  as  though  he  were  the  sole  pro 
prietor  of  the  Star. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "a  little  thing  like  that 
never  yet  prevented  a  newspaper  from  ap 
pearing  regularly." 

"No,"  he  laughed,  "but  think  of  the  per 
fectly  grand  opportunity  that  is  going  to 
waste.  Ed  Smith  away  for  another  week!" 

"We  enjoyed  printing  the  poetry,  didn't 
we?" 

"Didn't  we!"  he  responded.  "I  thought 
last  Wednesday  night  that  it  was  pretty 
nearly  the  biggest  and  most  interesting  work 
in  the  world  to  edit  a  country  newspaper." 


156  HEMPFIELD 

"And  you  told  Anthy." 

He  glanced  around  at  me  quickly. 

"She  told  you?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "but  I  knew." 

"Yes,  I  told  her,"  he  said. 

He  paused  and  looked  off  across  our  quiet 
hills;  the  autumn  air  was  cool  and  sweet. 

"I  wonder—  '  he  began,  but  he  did  not 
tell  me  what  it  was  that  he  wondered. 

Presently  his  thoughts  returned  sharply  to 
the  Star. 

"What  would  you  put  in  the  paper,  any 
how,  David?"  he  asked. 

"Hempfield,"saidl. 

His  eyes  kindled. 

"I  get  you,"  he  said  eagerly.  "It's  exactly 
what  I  say.  The  very  spirit  of  the  town,  the 
soul  of  the  country — make  the  paper  fairly 
throb  with  it." 

He  was  off!  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
seen  Nort  in  his  serious  mood — and  he  could 
be  dreadfully  serious,  as  serious  as  only  youth 
knows  how  to  be. 

'Truth!"  he  exclaimed  fiercely.  "We  don't 
print  the  truth  in  the  Star.  The  most  inter 
esting  and  important  things  about  Hempfield 
never  get  into  the  paper  at  all.  I  tell  you, 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      157 

David,  we  never  even  touch  the  actual  facts 
about  Hempfield.  We  just  fiddle  around  the 
outsides  of  things:  'John  Smith  came  to  town 
on  Saturday  with  his  blooded  colt.  Fine 
colt,  John!'  Bah!  Think  of  it — when  there 
is  a  whole  world  of  real  events  to  write  about. 
Why,  David,  there  are  more  wonderful  and 
tragic  and  amusing  things  right  here  in  this 
small  town  than  ever  I  saw  in  all  my  life. 
When  we  printed  the  poems  last  week,  we  just 
scratched  the  surface  of  the  real  life  of  Hemp- 
field." 

Nort  had  jumped  up,  thrust  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets,  and  was  tramping  up  and 
down  the  room,  shaking  his  mane  like  a  young 
lion.  I  confess  that,  for  a  moment,  I  was 
tempted  to  laugh  at  him — and  then  suddenly 
I  did  not  care  at  all  to  laugh.  Something  in 
the  wild  youth  of  him,  the  bold  thoughts, 
stirred  me  to  the  depths.  The  magic  of 
youth,  waving  its  flag  upon  the  Hill  Formid 
able!  The  fresh  runner  catching  up  the  torch 
that  has  fallen  from  the  slack  hand  of  age!  I 
have  had  my  dreams,  too,  Nort.  I  dreamed 
once— 

I  dreamed  once  of  seeing  the  very  truth 
of  things.  As  I  worked  alone  here  in  my 


158  HEMPFIELD 

fields,  with  the  great  world  all  open  and 
beautiful  around  me,  I  said  to  myself,  "I 
will  be  simple,  I  will  not  dodge  or  prevaricate 
or  excuse;  I  will  see  the  whole  of  life."  I  con 
fess  now  with  some  sadness  (and  humour, 
too)  that  I  have  not  mastered  the  wonders 
of  this  earth,  nor  seen  the  truth  of  it.  ... 
I  heard  a  catbird  singing  in  the  bush,  a  friend 
stopped  me  by  the  roadside,  there  was  a  star 
in  the  far  heavens—  And  when  I  looked 
up  I  was  old,  and  Truth  was  vanishing  behind 
the  hill. 

Something  of  all  this  I  had  in  my  thoughts 
as  Nort  talked  to  me;  and  it  came  to  me,  wist 
fully,  that  perhaps  this  burning  youth  might 
really  have  in  him  the  genius  to  see  the  truth 
of  things  more  clearly  than  I  could,  and  tell 
it  better  than  I  could. 

:'Yes,"  I  said,  "if  one  could  only  see  this 
Hempfield  of  ours  as  it  really  is,  all  the  poetry 
of  it,  all  the  passion  of  it,  all  the  dullness  and 
mediocrity,  all  the  tragedy  of  failure,  all  that 
is  in  the  hearts  and  souls  of  these  common 
people — what  a  thing  it  would  be!  How  it 
would  stir  the  world!" 

I  must  have  said  it  with  my  whole  soul,  as 
I  felt  it.  I  suppose  I  should  not  have  added 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      159 

fuel  to  the  fire  of  that  youth,   I   suppose  I 
should  have  been  calm  and  old  and  practical. 

For  a  moment  Nort  sat  perfectly  silent. 
Then  I  felt  the  trembling,  eager  pressure 
of  his  hand  on  my  arm.  He  leaned  over 
toward  me. 

"David,"  he  said,  "you  understand  things." 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  that  I  had  never 
heard  before.  Usually  he  had  a  half-humor 
ous,  yes,  flippant,  way  with  him,  but  there 
was  something  here  that  touched  bottom. 

I  don't  know  quite  why  it  is,  but  after  I 
have  been  serious  about  so  long,  I  have 
an  irresistible  desire  to  laugh.  I  find  I 
can't  remain  in  a  rarified  atmosphere  too 
long. 

"Nort,"  I  said  suddenly,  "you  haven't 
been  seeing  any  terrible  truths  about  Hemp- 
field,  have  you?" 

The  change  in  his  face  was  startling.     He 
looked  like  a  boy  caught  in  the  jam  closet— 
the  colour  suddenly  flooding  his  cheeks. 

"Where  is  it?"  I  asked.     "Trot  it  out." 

"How  did  you  know?"  asked  that  extraor 
dinary  young  man. 

I  laughed. 

"Nort,"  I  said,  "you  aren't  the  only  man 


i6o  HEMPFIELD 

in  this  world  who  is  trying  to  write — and  is 
ashamed  of  himself  because  he  can't." 

With  a  smile  which  I  can  only  characterize 
as  sheepish,  Nort  drew  from  his  breast  pocket 
a  packet  of  paper.  He  was  all  eagerness 
again,  and  was  for  reading  me  his  production 
on  the  spot;  but  just  at  this  moment  we  saw 
the  old  Captain  driving  up  to  the  gate  alone. 
Where  was  Anthy?  A  little  later  Fergus 
came,  and  for  some  time  Harriet  filled  the 
whole  house  with  the  pleasant  noises  and 
bustle  of  hospitality,  which  she  knows  best 
how  to  do. 

"Captain,"  I  said  as  soon  as  ever  I  could 
get  in  a  word,  "Nort  has  brought  a  manu 
script  with  him  to  read  to  us." 

At  that  the  Captain  instinctively  lifted  one 
hand  to  his  breast. 

'The  Captain  has  one,  too,"  I  said. 

"A  mere  editorial,"  responded  the  Captain 
with  dignity. 

"Where's  yours,  Fergus?"  I  asked. 

Fergus  took  his  pipe  out,  barked  once  or 
twice  deep  down  inside,  and  put  it  back  again, 
which,  interpreted,  meant  that  Fergus  was 
amused. 

At  this  point  Harriet  broke  in. 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      161 

"Before  you  do  anything  else,"  said  she, 
"I  want  you  all  to  come  out  and  have  a  bite 
to  eat." 

That's  the  way  with  Harriet.  Just  at  the 
moment  when  you've  set  your  scenery,  staged 
your  play,  and  the  curtain  is  about  to  go  up, 
she  appears  with — gingerbread — and  stam 
pedes  the  entire  company.  Why,  you  couldn't 
have  kept  Fergus- 
Harriet  had  put  on  her  choicest  tablecloth 
and  the  precious  napkins  left  her  by  our  great- 
aunt  Dorcas,  and  the  old  thin  glass  dishes  that 
came  from  Grandmother  Scribner,  which  are 
never  used  except  upon  high  occasions.  It 
was  Sunday  night  and,  as  Harriet  explained, 
we  never  have  any  supper  on  Sunday  night. 
There  was  thick  yellow  gingerbread,  with 
just  a  hint  in  it  (not  a  bit  too  much  and  not 
too  little)  of  the  delectable  molasses  of  which 
it  was  made,  and  perfect  apple  sauce  from 
the  earliest  Red  Astrakhans,  cooked  so  that 
the  rosy  quarters  looked  plump,  with  sugary 
crystals  sparkling  upon  them,  and  thin  glass 
tumblers  (of  Grandmother  Scribner's  set) 
full  of  sweet  milk,  yellow  and  almost  foamy  at 
the  top. 

There    are    perfect    moments    in    this    life! 


162  HEMPFIELD 

Nort  was  in  the  wildest  spirits,  the  rebound 
from  his  unusual  mood  of  seriousness.  Noth 
ing  escaped  him — neither  the  napkins,  nor 
the  spoons,  nor  the  thin  old  glass,  nor  the 
perfect  gingerbread,  nor  the  marvellous  apple 
sauce,  nor  the  glow  in  Harriet's  face.  She  knew 
that  Nort  would  see  it  all!  Harriet  is  never 
so  beautiful  as  when  she  sits  at  the  head  of  her 
own  table,  her  moment  of  supreme  artistry. 

"  I  went  to  church  to-day,"  said  Nort  finally. 

:<You  did!"    Harriet  was  vastly  pleased. 

"Yes,"  smiled  Nort. 

This  was  truly  a  youth  after  her  own  heart. 

"Nothing  else  to  do  on  Sunday  in  Hemp- 
field,"  said  Nort;  "and  it  was  interesting." 

He  stopped  and  looked  slowly  around  at  me. 

'The  truth  about  the  church  in  Hemp- 
field,  David!"  he  exclaimed,  as  though  we 
had  a  secret  between  us. 

I  laughed. 

"That's  one  thing,"  I  said,  "you  can't 
easily  tell  the  truth  about — in  Hempfield." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Harriet  with  astonish 
ment.  "Is  there  anything  that  should  en 
courage  one  to  truth-telling  more  than  the 
church?" 

"Read  it,  Nort,"  said  I,  "read  it." 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      163 

"Well,"  said  Nort,  again  drawing  forth  his 
manuscript,  "you  know  what  the  ordinary 
church  report  in  the  Star  is  like.  'The  usual 
services  were  held  last  Sunday  morning  at  the 
Congregational  Church.  An  appreciative  audi 
ence  listened  to  an  eloquent  sermon  by  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Sargent,  his  text  being  John  x,  3.' 
Now,  I  ask  you  if  that  gives  you  any  picture 
of  what  the  meeting  was  like  ?  Everybody  who 
was  there  knew  that  Mr.  Sargent  preached, 
and  nobody  who  was  absent  could  get  any 
thing  out  of  such  a  report.  So  what's  the 
use  of  printing  it?  I  thought  I'd  write  a  true 
report  of  what  I  saw — and  I'll  bet  it  will  be 
read  in  Hempfield." 

The  old  live  gleam  was  in  Nort's  eyes. 

Here  on  my  desk  I  have  the  very  manuscript 
from  which  Nort  read,  and  I  give  it  just  as  it 
was  written,  as  a  documentary  evidence  of 
Nort's  life. 

The  usual  forenoon  service  was  held  in  the  Congre^ 
gational  Church  on  Sunday.  Being  a  hot  day,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Sargent  wore  his  black  alpaca  coat,  and  preached 
earnestly  for  thirty  minutes,  his  text  being  John  x,  3. 
Miss  Daisy  Miller  played  a  selection  from  Mozart, 
though  the  piano  was  unfortunately  out  of  tune.  There 
were  in  attendance  fifteen  women,  mostly  old,  seven 


1 64  HEMPFIELD 

men,  and  four  children,  besides  the  choir.  During  the 
sermon  old  Mr.  Johnson  went  to  sleep  and  Mrs.  Johnson 
ate  four  peppermints.  Deacon  Mitchell  took  up  a 
collection  of  fifty-six  cents,  besides  what  was  in  the 
envelopes.  Following  is  a  complete  list  of  those  in 
attendance: 


—and  Nort  solemnly  read  off  the  names. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  hush  which 
followed  Nort's  reading,  and  the  horror  in 
Harriet's  face.  Fergus  was  the  first  to  break 
the  tension.  He  seemed  to  be  slowly  stran 
gling,  and  his  face  contrived  to  twist  itself  in 
to  the  most  alarming  contortions.  The  old 
Captain  finally  observed  indulgently: 

"Nort  will  have  his  little  joke." 

"Joke!"  exclaimed  Nort.  "Isn't  every 
word  of  it  true?  I  leave  it  to  Miss  Grayson 
if  I  haven't  been  absolutely  accurate.  And  I 
could  have  said  a  lot  more  about  the  service 
that  would  have  been  equally  true — and  a 
great  deal  funnier." 

I  could  see  generations  of  Puritan  ancestors 
marshalling  themselves  for  the  fray  in  Har 
riet's  horrified  countenance.  I  could  scarcely 
keep  from  laughing. 

"Yes,"  I  began,  "every  word  is  true— 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      165 

"The    piano    tuner,"    broke    in    Harriet, 
"couldn't  come  last  week." 

' '  But ,  Nort,"  I  continued ;  "you  may  have  seen 
the  church  in  Hempfield,  but  have  you  felt  it  ? " 

"Even  if  old  Mrs.  Johnson  does  eat  pep 
permints—       '  Harriet  was  saying. 

"Then  you  wouldn't  put  the  truth  in  the 
Star?"  said  Nort. 

I  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  old  Captain 
raised  a  commanding  hand. 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  he  with  great  de 
liberation,  "that  we  do  print  the  truth  in  the 
Star:  but  this  new  generation,  fed  upon 
luxury  and  ease,  has  lost  its  desire  for  the 
truth.  We're  preaching  the  same  sound  doc 
trine  that  we've  preached  for  thirty  years— 
but  the  people  refuse  the  truth.  They  say 
to  us,  'Prophesy  not  unto  us  right  things. 
Speak  unto  us  smooth  things,  prophesy  de 
ceits.'  They  are  wandering  in  the  wilderness. 
They  have  made  unto  themselves  a  graven 
image  of  free  trade,  and  they  are  falling  down 
and  worshipping  before  the  profane  altar  of 
what  they  are  pleased  to  call  the  Rights  of 
Women.  Rights  of  Women ! " 

Whenever  the  old  Captain  grew  most  elo 
quent  he  always  waxed  Biblical. 


1 66  HEMPFIELD 

Here  Nort  broke  in  again: 

"Well,  if  you  don't  like  that  report — I  wrote 
it  more  than  half  in  fun  anyway — here's 
another.  It's  the  truth — I  felt  it,  too,  David 
—and  I  haven't  used  a  single  name!" 

I  can  see  him  yet,  sitting  up  there  behind 
the  table,  quite  rigid,  reading  from  his  manu 
script  : 

"There  is  a  man  in  this  town  who  quarrels  regularly 
with  his  wife.  He  quarrelled  with  her  this  morning  at 
breakfast:  said  the  eggs  were  overdone  and  the  coffee 
was  cold.  The  sun  was  shining  in  at  the  window,  the 
birds  were  singing,  and  the  grass  was  green — but  he  was 
quarrelling  with  his  wife — 

Well,  Nort  had  a  breathless  audience! 
This  time  he  was  in  deadly  earnest.  His 
sketch  was  not  long,  but  it  was  as  vivid  a 
picture  of  the  torment  of  domestic  unhappi- 
ness  as  ever  I  have  seen  in  such  brief  compass. 
Moreover,  it  had  the  very  passion,  the  cut  and 
thrust  of  the  truth  of  things. 

No  sooner  had  he  finished  reading  than 
Harriet  leaned  forward  and  asked  in  a  half 
whisper,  all  ablaze  with  shocked  interest. 

"Who  is  it?     Is  it  theNewtons?" 

It  was  Nort's  turn  to  look  surprised. 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      167 

"Why,  no,"  said  he.  "I  don't  know  the 
Newtons  at  all." 

"But  you  must  have  had  some  one  in 
mind." 

"No,"  said  Nort;  "it's  just  a  description 
of  how  married  people  quarrel." 

"But  it's  exactly  what  the  Newtons  do," 
said  Harriet. 

Here  the  old  Captain  broke  in. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "if  we  printed  a  thing 
like  that  we'd  lose  all  the  advertising  of  New 
ton's  store.  We'd  lose  the  whole  Newton 
family,  and  their  cousins,  the  Maxwells,  and 
their  connections,  the  Mecklins.  Why— 

"But  it's  true,  it's  true!"  Nort  burst  in. 
"And  every  one  of  you  was  more  interested 
in  it,  I  could  see  that,  than  in  anything  we 
ever  put  in  the  Star — since  I've  been  here." 

With  that  Nort  suddenly  jumped  up,  as 
though  some  important  thought  had  just 
occurred  to  him,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

"Well,  I  never!"  exclaimed  Harriet. 

I  succeeded  in  catching  him  in  the  hallway. 

"Hempfield  would  not  see  these  things  as 
Miss  Grayson  does,"  he  said. 

"Nort,"  said  I,  "Harriet  is  Hempfield." 

He  paused  just  a  moment. 


168  HEMPFIELD 

"I  think  Anthy — Miss  Doane — will  under 
stand,"  he  said. 

With  that  he  rushed  out  in  the  dark.  He 
made  the  distance  to  town,  I  think,  in  record 
time.  It  was  well  past  nine  o'clock  when  he 
arrived  at  the  common,  and  the  town  was 
silent  with  a  silence  that  broods  over  it  only 
on  Sunday  nights.  He  went  past  the  print 
ing-office  without  looking  around.  It  was  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  a  quarter  to  ten  when  he 
arrived  at  Anthy's  gate.  An  odd  time  for  a 
call  at  Hempfield,  you  say!  It  was,  indeed. 

But  there  was  a  light  in  the  window.  Nort 
went  up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell.  He  had 
never  before  felt  quite  as  he  did  at  that  mo 
ment. 

Anthy  herself  opened  the  door.  Nort 
stepped  in  quickly  and,  for  a  moment,  was 
unable  to  say  a  word.  Anthy  retreated  a 
step  or  two. 

"I  tell  you,  Miss  Doane,"  said  Nort  explo 
sively,  "the  only  way  to  make  a  success  of 
the  Star  is  to  publish  the  truth  about  Hemp- 
field- 

At  that  moment  Nort  happened  to  glance 
through  the  wide  door  of  the  library.  It  was 
a  comfortable,  old-fashioned  room,  and  the 


GREAT  PLANS  ARE  EVOLVED      169 


"  1  tell  you,  Miss  Doane,"  said  Nort  explosively,  "  the  only 
way  to  make  a  success  of  the  Star  is  to  publish  the  truth 
about  Hemptield — 


170  HEMPFIELD 

evening  being  a  little  cool  a  cheerful  fire  was 
blazing  on  the  hearth.  In  a  low  chair  under 
the  light,  seeming  perfectly  at  home,  sat  Ed 
Smith. 

The  words  died  on  Nort's  lips.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  rigid  and  silent,  facing  Anthy. 
Ed  had  turned  his  head  and  was  looking  at 
them.  No  one  uttered  a  sound. 

Nort  was  never  able  afterward  to  account 
for  what  he  did  at  that  moment.  He  turned 
quickly,  still  without  saying  a  word,  rushed 
out  of  the  house,  ran  down  the  steps,  fell  over 
a  honeysuckle  bush,  picked  himself  up  again, 
bumped  into  the  gate — and  found  himself  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  in  the  dark,  bare 
headed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    EXPLOSION 

WHEN  I  was  younger  than  I  am  now— 
not  so  very  long  ago,  either — I  thought 
I  should  like  to  make  over  some  of  my  neigh 
bours.  I  thought  I  could  improve  on  the 
processes  of  the  Creator,  who  was  apparently 
wobbly  in  his  moral  standards  and  weak  in 
his  discipline,  for  he  allowed  several  people 
I  knew  to  flourish  and  be  joyful  who  by  good 
rights  ought  to  be  smacked  on  their  refractory 
pates;  but  now,  it  seems  to  me,  I  love  most  of 
all  to  see  my  friends  coming  every  day  true 
to  themselves:  Harriet  illustrating  herself, 
Horace  himself.  As  for  the  old  Captain,  I 


172  HEMPFIELD 

never  wanted  a  hair  of  him  changed.  When 
men  act  in  character,  though  they  be  beggars 
or  burglars,  and  do  not  pose  or  imitate,  we 
have  a  kind  of  fondness  for  them. 

As  I  look  back  on  it  now  I  would  not  even 
make  over  Ed  Smith.  I  did  not  understand 
him  as  well  then  as  I  do  now,  but  he  was 
playing  his  part  in  the  world  as  well  as  ever 
he  knew  how  to  play  it. 

Sometimes  I  like  to  think  of  human  beings 
as  cells  in  the  various  parts  of  the  huge 
anatomy  of  society.  In  any  such  considera 
tion  Ed  Smith  would  be  a  stomach  cell,  and 
a  pretty  good  one.  Whenever  the  rest  of  us 
were  soaring  too  far  aloft  it  was  Ed's  function 
to  come  stealing  in  upon  us  like  the  honest 
odour  of  corned  beef  and  cabbage.  It  was 
Ed's  function  to  see  that  we  earned  every 
week  at  least  as  much  as  we  spent,  a  tremen 
dous  undertaking  when  you  come  to  think  of  it. 

The  fact  is,  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  we 
are  all  mixed  up  together  in  this  world — poets 
and  plumbers,  critics  and  cooks — and  the 
more  clearly  we  recognize  it,  the  firmer, 
sounder,  truer,  will  be  our  grip  upon  the 
significance  of  human  life.  Why,  many  a 
time,  when  I've  been  sitting  here  reading  in 


THE  EXPLOSION  173 

my  study,  living  for  the  moment  in  the  rarer 
atmosphere  of  the  poets,  the  philosophers,  the 
prophets,  I  have  had  to  get  up  and  go  out  and 
feed  the  pigs.  I  have  always  thought  it, 
somehow,  good  for  me. 

When  Ed  Smith  arrived  at  the  printing- 
office  early  on  the  following  morning,  the  fat, 
round  stove,  with  legs  broadly  planted  in  a 
box  of  sand,  into  which  Fergus  had  poked 
accumulated  scraps  and  cuttings  of  the  shop, 
had  just  broken  into  a  jolly  smile.  Fergus 
himself,  his  early  morning  temper  scarcely 
less  rumpled  than  his  hair,  was  standing 
near  it,  shoulders  humped  up,  like  a  cold 
crow.  He  did  not  know  that  Ed  Smith  had 
returned  to  Hempfield,  but  his  face,  when  he 
saw  him,  betrayed  not  the  slightest  sign  of 
surprise. 

Ed  was  evidently  labouring  under  a  con 
siderable  pressure  of  excitement. 

''What's  all  this  tomfoolery  about  printing 
the  truth  in  the  Star?"  he  burst  out. 

Fergus  began  to  rumble. 

'Tired  o'  printin'  lies,  I  s'pose,"  he  ob 
served. 

Ed  always  wore  his  hat  a  little  cocked 
back,  and  when  he  was  excited  he  put  both 


174  HEMPFIELD 

hands  in  his  pockets  and  began  thrusting  out 
his  chest  until  you  were  relieved  to  discover 
that  he  was  held  together  by  a  chain  which  ran 
across  him  from  the  vest  pocket  that  contained 
his  watch  to  the  pocket  where  he  carried  his 
comb  and  his  toothbrush. 

Ed  had  been  working  himself  up  into  a 
fine  passion.  Only  ten  days  away  and  every 
thing  gone  to  the  bow-wows.  The  Poems  of 
Hempfield!  He  held  up  the  first  page  of  our 
precious  issue,  slapped  it  smooth  with  his 
hand,  and  glared  at  it  fiercely. 

'The  Poems  of  Hempfield!"  he  remarked 
with  concentrated  irony.  "What  this  broken- 
down  newspaper  has  got  to  learn  is  that  it  isn't 
in  business  for  the  fun  of  it.  Poetry !  Truth ! 
What  we  want  is  cash,  hard,  cold  cash!" 

At  this  moment  Ed  began  to  glare  at  the 
paper  still  more  fiercely. 

"Where's  that  reading  notice  about  the 
electric  light  company?"  he  demanded. 

By  an  imperceptible  motion  of  a  hostile 
shoulder  Fergus  indicated  the  hold-over  stone. 
Ed  rushed  over  and  found  the  precious  item, 
with  leads  askew  and  one  corner  pied  down. 
He  also  found  the  notice  of  the  candidacy  of 
D.  J.  McCullum,  Democrat,  which  the  old 


THE  EXPLOSION  175 

Captain  had  so  lightly  ordered  excluded  from 
our  issue  of  the  Star. 

If  Anthy  herself  had  appeared  at  that  mo 
ment  I  don't  know  what  might  not  have  hap 
pened.  Poor  Ed!  He  had  painfully,  by 
hustle  and  bustle,  pieced  together  a  business 
which  was  about  to  yield  a  profit,  and  had 
scarcely  turned  his  back  when  a  lot  of  blun 
derers  (and  worse)  had  begun  to  mix  every 
thing  up.  There  wasn't  enough  business 
sense  in  the  whole  crowd  of  them— 

Ed  had  still  another  cause  for  irritation. 
He  was  miserably  jealous,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life.  The  incident  of  the  previous 
night,  when  Nort  had  burst  in  so  uncere 
moniously  upon  Anthy,  and  at  sight  of  him 
had  fled  so  precipitately,  was  wholly  beyond 
his  comprehension.  A  tramp  printer,  at  next 
to  nothing  a  week!  What  could  he  mean  by 
calling  on  Anthy,  the  proprietor,  in  such  a 
way,  and  bursting  out  with  a  suggestion  about 
the  paper,  as  though  he  owned  it. 

Poor  Ed !  I  shall  never  forget  the  picture 
I  have  of  him — I  learned  about  it  long  after 
ward-standing  rather  stiffly  at  the  doorway, 
awkwardly  handling  his  hat,  about  to  say 
good-night,  and  yet  not  going. 


1 76  HEMPFIELD 

"Anthy,"  he  began,  "I  came  back  on 
purpose  to — to  make  a  proposition  to  you 
to-night- 
He  published  his  intention  by  the  very 
sound  of  his  voice,  which  trembled  a  little 
in  spite  of  the  confidence  he  had  felt  before 
hand. 

I  fancy  I  can  see  Anthy,  too,  as  she  stood 
facing  him  there  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in 
the  old  hallway,  with  the  flower-filled  urns 
on  the  wall  paper.  So  much  of  the  thing  in 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him  whimsically,  it 
must  have  been,  and  yet  kindly,  Ed  could 
never  have  understood.  He  could  never  have 
understood  the  other  Anthy,  the  Anthy  wrhose 
letters  to  Mr.  Lincoln  lie  here  in  my  desk. 

I  am  not  clear  as  to  exactly  what  happened 
next,  and  no  more,  I  think,  was  Ed;  but  he 
went  out  and  down  the  steps  without  having 
told  Anthy  what  his  "proposition"  was,  and 
firmly  believing  that  she  did  not  know  how 
dangerously  near  he  had  come  to  committing 
himself.  Women  know  how  to  do  these  things. 
Ed  did  not  rush  away  as  Nort  had  done, 
nor  fall  over  the  honeysuckle  bush,  nor  lose 
his  hat — nor  his  head.  Not  Ed!  But  as  he 
walked  back  home  a  faint  suspicion  began  to 


THE  EXPLOSION  177 

rankle  in  his  soul  that  his  course  might  not 
be  as  clear  as  he  had  supposed. 

The  most  irresistible  man  to  women  is 
the  one  who  seems  to  know  least  that  they 
are  women  at  all.  But  Ed  Smith  was  not 
of  this  sort.  Ed's  practical  thoughts  were 
ever  hanging  about  the  idea  of  marriage. 
He  fell  more  or  less  deeply  in  love  with  every 
pretty  girl  he  met,  made  elaborately  gallant 
speeches,  brought  her  flowers,  pop  corn,  and 
chewing  gum,  tried  to  hold  her  hand,  and 
began,  warily,  to  consider  her  as  a  prospective 
Mrs.  Smith,  weighing  her  qualifications,  quite 
sensibly,  for  that  responsible  position.  Oh, 
Ed  had  been  a  good  deal  of  a  "lady's  man" 
in  his  time:  knew  well  his  many  qualifications, 
and  often  congratulated  himself  that  he  would 
never  be  "caught"  until  he  was  "good  and 
ready."  There  was  more  than  one  girl — he 
had  only  to  "crook  his  finger." 

While  he  was  away  he  began  to  think  of 
Anthy.  She  was  somehow  different  from 
any  girl  he  had  ever  known.  He  couldn't 
quite  understand  why  it  was,  but  there  was 
something  about  her,  even  though  she  might 
be  a  little  "slow"  and  "quiet"  for  a  man  like 
him.  And  the  more  he  thought  of  her  the 


178  HEMPFIELD 

more  excellent  reasons  occurred  to  him  for 
yielding  to  his  feelings.  She  was  the  owner 
of  the  Star,  which  was  already  beginning  to 
show  signs  of  vigorous  life,  and  she  was  a 
"mighty  smart  girl"  into  the  bargain.  She 
would  be  an  ornament  to  any  man's  house. 

It  was  the  vague  glimmer  of  the  new  idea 
that  any  girl  should  not  wish  to  become  Mrs. 
Smith  when  she  was  given  a  fair  opportunity 
that  now  occurred  to  him  painfully,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.  The  thought  of  Nort 
began  to  grow  upon  him,  the  thought,  also, 
that  some  of  his  rights  were  being  trodden 
upon.  Had  he  not  come  to  the  Star  with  the 
idea  that  Anthy—  Could  he  not  have  made 
a  lot  more  money  by  going  with  the  Dexter 
Enterprise? 

It  is  astonishing  how  cunningly  life  pre 
pares  for  its  explosions,  how  adroitly  it  com 
bines  the  nitre,  the  charcoal,  the  sulphur,  of 
human  nature.  First  it  grinds  the  ingredients 
separately — as  Ed  Smith  was  being  ground, 
as  the  spirit  of  Norton  Carr  was  ground — and 
then  it  mixes  them  in  a  mill,  say  a  pleasant 
country  printing-office,  with  a  wren's  nest  at 
the  gable  end,  and  there  it  subjects  them  to 
the  enormous  pressure  of  necessity,  of  pas- 


THE  EXPLOSION  179 

sion,  of  ambition.  And  when  the  mixture 
is  made,  though  the  fuse  which  life  lays  may 
be  long,  the  explosion  is  sure  to  follow.  A 
spark,  say  a  stick  of  pied  type,  or  a  vagabond 
printer  absurdly  looking  for  the  truth  of 
things,  or  the  look  in  a  girl's  eyes,  and,  bang— 
the  world  will  never  again  be  exactly  what  it 
was  before. 

Events  moved  swiftly  with  the  Star  of 
Hempfield  that  forenoon.  You  would  not 
believe  that  so  much  could  happen  in  a  drowsy 
country  printing-office,  on  a  drowsy  Monday 
morning,  in  so  short  a  time.  I  was  there 
when  Nort  came  in,  all  unsuspecting.  He 
came  in  quietly,  not  at  all  like  himself;  he 
was,  in  fact,  low  in  his  spirits.  He  glanced 
at  Ed  Smith,  and  began,  as  usual,  to  take  off 
his  coat  in  the  corner.  Ed  was  sitting  at  his 
desk  fiercely  at  work. 

"Carr,"  said  he,  scarcely  turning  his  head, 
"you  needn't  take  off  your  coat.  Won't  need 
you  any  longer.  Gotta  economize.  Gotta  cut 
down  expenses.  I'll  pay  you  what's  coming 
to  you  right  now." 

There  was  a  moment  of  absolute  silence 
in  the  office.  Tom,  the  cat,  was  asleep  by 
the  stove.  Fergus  and  I  waited  breathlessly. 


i8o  HEMPFIELD 

I  fully  expected  to  see  Nort  explode;  I  didn't 
know  in  just  what  way,  but  somehow,  in 
Nort's  way,  whatever  that  might  be.  But  he 
merely  stood  there,  coat  half  off,  looking 
utterly  mystified.  Ed  turned  halfway  around. 

"Here's  your  money,"  he  said. 

The  thing  in  all  its  crude  reality  was  still 
incomprehensible  to  Nort.  He  didn't  know 
that  such  things  were  ever  done  in  the  world. 

'  You  mean—      "  he  stammered. 

Ed  was  very  angry.  I  excuse  him  some 
what  on  that  ground,  and  Nort  was  only  a 
tramp  printer  anyway. 

'You're  fired,"  he  said  doggedly,  "and 
here's  your  wages  to  date." 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  effect  on  Nort. 
It  was  as  though  some  light  air  blew  across 
him.  He  had  looked  heavy  and  depressed 
when  he  came  in :  now  his  shoulders  straight 
ened,  his  chin  lifted,  and  the  old,  reckless 
smile  came  into  his  face.  He  swept  us  all 
with  a  look  of  amused  astonishment,  and  then, 
slipping  back  into  his  coat,  said: 

"Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  Smith,"  and  turned 
and  went  out  of  the  office. 

Ed  jumped  from  his  chair. 

"Here's  your  cash,"  he  said. 


THE  EXPLOSION  181 

But  Nort  had  gone  out. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  hanged ! " observed  Ed,  quickly 
putting  the  money  back  in  his  pocket. 

I  am  slow,  slow!  I  have  always  wished 
since  then  that  I  had  been  quick  enough  to 
do  what  Fergus  did.  It  was  not  that  I  did 
not  love  Nort— 

When  I  looked  around  Fergus  was  gone. 
He  had  slipped  out  of  the  back  door.  He 
caught  Nort  at  the  gate,  and  grasped  his 
hand  so  hard  that  Nort  said  it  hurt  him  for 
a  week  afterward.  He  tried  to  say  some 
thing,  but  his  face  worked  so  that  he  couldn't. 
Then  he  was  suddenly  ashamed  of  himself, 
and  came  running  back  into  the  office,  his 
hair  flying  wildly.  Tom,  the  cat,  at  that  mo 
ment  rising  from  his  favourite  spot  near  the 
stove,  Fergus  kicked  at  him  vigorously— 
without  hitting  him. 

Ed  now  began  to  stride  about  the  office, 
head  a  little  lifted,  a  bold  look  in  the  eye. 
He  saw  neither  Fergus  nor  me.  He  was 
in  a  grand  mood.  I  always  imagined  he 
must  have  felt  at  that  moment  something 
like  Fitz-James  when  he  met  Roderick  Dhu: 

Come  one,  come  all!  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I. 


182  HEMPFIELD 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  We  heard 
the  old  Captain  on  the  steps,  thumping  his 
cane,  clearing  his  throat.  I  shall  never  forget 
how  he  looked  when  he  came  in  at  the  door, 
his  tall,  soldierly  figure,  the  long,  shabby  black 
coat,  the  thick  silvery  hair  under  the  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  the  beaming  eye  of  him.  Ever 
since  the  publication  of  his  editorial  on  Wil 
liam  J.  Bryan,  the  Captain  had  been  in  great 
spirits. 

"Nort!"  he  called,  as  he  set  down  his 
cane. 

No  answer. 

"Where's  Nort?"  he  boomed.  "Fergus, 
where's  Nort?  I  want  to  show  him  my  edi 
torial  on  Theodore  Roosevelt." 

Ominous  silence. 

The  old  Captain  looked  up  and  about  him. 
Fergus  was  busy  at  the  cases. 

"Where's  Nort?"  asked  the  old  Captain 
sharply,  this  time  directing  his  question  at 
Ed  Smith. 

"I've  fired  him,"  said  Ed.  "Got  to  cut 
down  expenses." 

"You— fired— Nort?" 

The  old  Captain's  voice  sounded  as  though 
it  came  from  the  bottom  of  a  well. 


THE  EXPLOSION  183 

''Yes,"  said  Ed  crisply,  "I  hired  him — and 
now  I've  fired  him." 

Ed  was  still  much  in  the  mood  of  Fitz- 
James.  He  had  always  been  somewhat  con 
temptuous  of  the  Captain.  He  not  only 
regarded  him  as  an  old  fogy,  a  vain  old  fogy, 
but  as  a  dead  weight  upon  the  Star.  Ed 
thought  his  editorials  worse  than  nothing  at 
all,  and  had  resolved  to  get  rid  of  the  Captain 
at  the  first  opportunity.  It  was  too  bad,  of 
course,  but — business  is  business. 

When  the  Captain  did  not  reply,  Ed  ob 
served  at  large: 

"The  trouble  with  this  office  is  that  you 
all  seem  to  think  we  are  printing  a  news 
paper  for  our  health." 

"Sold  more  extra  copies  of  the  Star  last 
week  than  ever  before,"  said  Fergus. 

"Yes,"  responded  Ed  bitterly,  "and  left 
out  reading  notices  that  would  have  brought 
in  more  than  all  your  extras  put  together. 
That  electric  light  announcement,  and  the 
notice  of  Dick  McCullum's  candidacy— 

At  this  the  old  Captain  broke  in  with  omi 
nous  deliberation. 

"I  want  to  know,"  said  he,  "if  it  is  now  the 
policy  of  this  newspaper  to  support  Democrats 


1 84  HEMPFIELD 

for  money,  and  fool  the  people  of  Hempfield 
with  paid  news  about  greedy  corporations?" 

"It's  my  policy,"  responded  Ed,  "to  tap 
shoes  for  anybody  that's  got  the  price.  I'm 
a  practical  man." 

I  never  can  hope  to  do  justice  by  the  scene 
which  followed.  The  old  Captain  strode  a 
step  nearer  and  rested  one  hand  on  the  corner 
of  Ed  Smith's  desk,  a  majestic  figure  of  wrath. 

"Practical!"  he  exploded.  "You  are  a 
blackguard,  sir!  You  are  a  scoundrel,  sir!" 

He  paused,  drawing  deep  breaths. 

:< You're  a  traitor — you're  a  Democrat.'" 

With  all  his  assurance,  Ed  was  completely 
taken  back.  He  actually  looked  frightened. 
The  Captain's  tone  now  changed  to  one  of 
irony. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "you  believe  in  flying 
machines." 

Ed  hesitated. 

"And  in  woman  suffrage ! " 

The  art  of  scorn  has  fallen  sadly  into  dis 
repute  in  these  later  days.  Scorn  fares  hardly 
in  an  age  of  doubt  and  democracy.  I  can 
rarely  feel  it  myself;  but  as  it  came  rolling 
out  of  the  old  Captain  that  morning,  I'll  admit 
there  was  something  grand  about  it. 


THE  EXPLOSION 


185 


By  this  time  Ed  had  begun  to  recover  him 
self. 

"Well,  we  got  to  live,  haven't  we?"  he 
asked. 

It  was  very  rare  that  the  old  Captain  swore, 


"  Practical!  "  he  exploded.     "  You  are  a  blackguard,  sir! 
You  are  a  scoundrel,  sir!" 

for  he  was  a  sound  Churchman,  and  when  he 
did  swear  it  was  with  a  sort  of  reverence. 


i86  HEMPFIELD 

"  No,  by  God,"  said  the  Captain,  "we  haven't 
got  to  live,  we  haven't  got  to  live;  but,  by 
God!  we've  got   to    stand    for   the    nation— 
and    the    Constitution — and    the    Republican 
party!" 

He  paused,  threw  back  his  beautiful  old 
head,  and  shook  his  mane  just  a  little.  (How 
he  would  have  liked  to  see  himself  at  that 
moment!) 

'The  Weekly  Star  of  Hempfield,"  he  said, 
"will  remain  an  incorruptible  exponent  of 
American  institutions.  The  people  may  cease 
to  believe  in  God  and  the  Constitution,  but 
the  Star  will  remain  firm  and  staunch.  We 
shed  our  blood  upon  the  field  of  Antietam: 
we  stand  ready  to  shed  it  again — for  the 
nation,  the  Grand  Old  Party,  and  the  high 
protective  tariff.  Though  beaten  upon  by 
stormy  seas,  we  shall  remain  impregnable." 

I  cannot  describe  how  impregnable  the 
old  Captain  looked,  standing  there  by  Ed's 
desk,  one  clenched  fist  raised  aloft.  He  was 
at  his  best,  and  his  best  was  better  than  you 
will  often  find  in  these  days. 

But  the  old  Captain  could  no  more  under 
stand  Ed  Smith  than  Ed  could  understand 
him.  He  would  rather  have  laid  his  right 


THE  EXPLOSION  187 

hand  upon  living  coals  of  fire  than  to  have 
taken  what  he  considered  a  "dirty  dollar" 
for  advertising.  And  yet  in  his  day,  no  man 
in  Westmoreland  County  was  a  keener  politi 
cal  manipulator  than  he.  He  had  traded  his 
influence  quite  simply  and  frankly  for  the 
public  printing.  Was  it  not  the  natural  re 
ward  of  the  faithful  party  worker?  Had  he 
not  stumped  the  state  for  Elaine?  Had  not 
congressmen  come  to  his  door  with  their  hats 
in  their  hands  offering  him  favours  in  exchange 
for  his  support  ?  And  he  had  travelled  always 
on  railroad  passes,  as  was  his  due  as  an  influ 
ential  editor,  and  voted,  when  a  member  of 
the  legislature,  with  sincere  belief  in  the  great 
ness  of  all  captains  of  industry,  for  every  rail 
road  bill  that  came  up. 

But  the  idea  of  taking  crude  money  for 
reading  notices  favourable  to  the  electric 
lighting  contract  in  Hempfield,  or  of  publish 
ing  for  payment  the  cards  of  Democrats — it 
was  not  in  his  lexicon.  Times  change,  and  the 
methods  of  men. 

When  the  old  Captain  once  got  started  on  the 
freedom  of  the  press  he  was  hard  to  stop;  but 
as  he  talked  Ed's  courage  began  to  return,  for 
he  could  never  take  the  old  Captain  quite  seri- 


i88  HEMPFIELD 

ously.  At  the  first  pause  he  broke  in  with  a 
faint  attempt  at  jocularity. 

"Who's  editing  this  paper,  anyway,  Cap 
tain?" 

The  old  Captain  looked  at  him  in  astonish 
ment. 

"Why,  I  am,"  said  he.  "I've  edited  the 
Hempfield  Star  for  thirty  years." 

I  think  he  really  believed  it. 

"And  what  is  more,"  he  continued,  "the 
Star  is  about  to  part  company  with  Ed 
Smith." 

Ed  bounced  out  of  his  chair. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried — and  there 
was  a  sure  note  of  fear  in  his  voice  that  was  not 
lost  upon  the  Captain. 

'You're  discharged,  sir!" 

Ed  caught  his  breath. 

"You  can't  do  it!"  he  cried.  "You  can't 
do  it:  you  don't  own  the  paper!  I've  got  a 
contract— 

The  old  Captain  drew  himself  to  his  full 
height  and  pointed  with  one  long  arm  at  the 
door: 

"Go/"  said  he. 

It  was  grand. 

He  then  turned  to  Fergus.     "Fergus  call 


THE  EXPLOSION  189 

up  my  niece  on  the  telephone.  I  wish  to 
speak  to  her." 

He  walked  up  the  length  of  the  room  and 
back  again,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him 
under  his  coat  tails.  He  did  not  once  look  at 
Ed. 

"Is  this  Anthy?"  he  asked,  when  Fergus 
handed  him  the  telephone.  "Anthy,  I  have 
just  discharged  Ed  Smith.  He  will  no  longer 
cumber  this  office." 

He  paused. 

"No,  I  said  I  have  just  discharged  him.  He 
was  only  small  potatoes,  anyway,  and  few  in 
the  hill." 

He  put  down  the  telephone:  Ed  made  as  if 
to  speak,  but  the  old  Captain  waved  him  aside. 

"Fergus,"  he  said,  "I  have  an  editorial 
ready  for  this  week's  Star.  Now  let's  get  down 
to  business." 

Having  delivered  himself,  he  was  light, 
he  was  gay. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ANTHY   TAKES    COMMAND 

/\NTHY  was  always  late  in  reaching  the 
2~\.  office,  if  she  came  at  all,  on  Monday 
mornings.  It  was  one  of  the  days  when  old 
Mrs.  Parker  came  to  help  her,  and  it  was  neces 
sary  that  the  week  be  properly  started  in  the 
household  of  the  Doanes. 

It  is  said  of  Goethe  that  he  was  prouder  of 
his  knowledge  of  the  science  of  optics — which 
was  mostly  wrong — than  he  was  of  his  poetry. 
Genius  is  often  like  that.  It  was  so  in  the  case 
of  old  Mrs.  Parker,  who  considered  herself 
incomparable  as  a  cook  (and  once — this  is 
town  report — baked  her  spectacles  in  a  cus 
tard  pie),  and  held  lightly  her  genius  as  a 
journalist.  On  any  bright  morning  she  could 
go  out  on  her  stoop,  turn  once  or  twice  around, 
sniff  the  breezes,  and  tell  you  in  voluminous 

190 


ANTHY  TAKES  COMMAND         191 

language  what  her  neighbours  were  going  to 
have  for  dinner,  with  interesting  digressions 
upon  the  character,  social  standing,  and  eco 
nomic  condition  of  each  of  them. 

Though  she  often  tried  Anthy's  orderly 
soul,  she  was  as  much  of  a  feature  of  the  house 
hold  on  certain  days  every  week  as  the  what 
not  in  the  corner  of  the  parlour.  She  had  been 
coming  almost  as  long  as  Anthy  could  remem 
ber.  For  years  she  had  amused,  provoked, 
and  tyrannized  over  Anthy's  father,  troubled 
his  digestion  with  pies,  and  given  him  innu 
merable  items  for  the  Star.  She  was  as  good  as 
any  reporter. 

On  this  particular  autumn  morning  Mrs. 
Parker  was  unusually  quiet,  for  her.  She 
evidently  had  something  on  her  mind.  She 
had  called  upstairs  only  once: 

"Anthy,  where  did  you  put  the  cinnamon  ?" 

Now,  Anthy,  as  usual,  upon  this  intimation, 
for  old  Mrs.  Parker  never  deigned  to  ask  di 
rectly  what  she  was  to  do,  had  come  down 
stairs, and  by  an  adroit,  verbalpassage-at-arms, 
in  which  both  of  them,  I  think,  delighted,  had 
diverted  her  intention  of  making  pumpkin 
pies  and  centred  her  interest  upon  a  less  am 
bitious  pudding.  On  this  occasion  Mrs. 


192  HEMPFIELD 

Parker  did  not  even  offer  to  tell  the  story 
suggested  by  the  catchword  "cinnamon,"  of 
how  a  certain  Flora  Peters — you  know,  the 
Peterses  of  Hawleyville,  cousins  of  the  Hew- 
letts — had  once  used  pepper  for  cinnamon  in 
a  pie. 

Anthy  was  fond  of  these  mornings  at  home, 
especially  just  such  crispy  autumn  mornings 
as  this  one.  She  loved  to  go  about  busily,  a 
white  cap  over  her  bright  hair,  the  windows 
upstairs  all  wide  open  to  the  sunshine,  the  cool 
breezes  blowing  in.  She  loved  to  have  the 
beds  spread  open,  and  the  rugs  up,  and  plenty 
to  do.  At  such  times,  and  often  also  in  the 
spring  when  she  was  working  in  her  garden, 
she  would  break  into  bits  of  song,  just  snatches 
here  and  there,  or  she  would  whistle.  In 
these  moments  of  unconscious  activity  one 
might  catch  fleeting  glimpses  of  the  hidden 
Anthy.  I  like,  somehow,  more  than  almost 
anything  else,  to  think  of  her  as  I  saw  her,  a 
very  few  times,  on  occasions  like  these. 

One  song,  or  part  of  a  song,  I  once  heard  her 
sing  in  an  unguarded  moment,  a  bit  of  old  bal 
lad  in  a  haunting  minor  key,  springs  at  this 
moment  so  clear  in  my  memory  that  I  can 
hear  the  very  cadences  of  her  voice.  I  don't 


ANTHY  TAKES  COMMAND         193 

know  where  the  words  came  from,  or  what  the 
song  was,  nor  yet  the  music  of  it : 

"  It  is  not  for  a  false  lover 

That  I  go  sad  to  see, 
But  it  is  for  a  weary  life 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree." 

Bits  of  poetry  were  always  coming  to  the 
surface  with  Anthy.  I  remember  once,  that 
very  fall,  as  we  were  walking  down  the  long 
lane  homeward  one  Sunday  afternoon  from  my 
farm,  how  Anthy,  who  had  been  silent  for  some 
time,  suddenly  made  the  whole  world  of  that 
October  day  newly  beautiful: 

"The  sweet,  calm  sunshine  of  October  now 
Warms  the  low  spot;  upon  its  grassy  mould 
The  purple  oak-leaf  falls;  the  birchen  bough 
Drops  its  bright  spoil  like  arrow  heads  of  gold." 

I  remember  looking  at  her  rapt  face  as  she 
repeated  the  words,  and  seeing  the  sunlight 
catch  in  her  hair. 

In  some  ways  the  Anthy,  the  real  Anthy,  of 
those  days  was  only  half  awake.  It  is  your 
unimaginative  girl  who  sees  in  every  dusty 
swain  the  possible  hero  of  her  heart;  but  she 
whose  eyes  are  dazzled  by  the  shining  armour 


i94  HEMPFIELD 

of  a  knight-o'-dreams  comes  reluctantly 
awake.  It  is  so  with  some  of  the  finest  women : 
they  step  lightly  through  the  years,  with  un 
touched  hearts.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
her  father  in  Anthy,  a  great  deal  of  the  old 
New  Englander,  treasuring  the  best  jealousy 
inside. 

I  think  sometimes  that  women  are  far  bet 
ter  natural  executives  and  organizers  than 
men.  To  keep  a  great  household  running 
smoothly,  provisioned,  cleaned,  made  sweet 
and  cheerful  always,  and  to  do  it  incidentally 
as  it  were,  with  a  hundred  other  activities 
filling  her  thoughts,  is  an  accomplishment 
not  sufficiently  appreciated  in  this  world. 
Anthy,  like  the  true  women  of  her  race,  had 
this  capacity  highly  developed.  She  had  a 
real  genius  for  orderliness,  which  is  the  sanity, 
if  not  the  religion,  of  everyday  life. 

"I  will  say  this  for  Anthy  Doane,"  old 
Mrs.  Parker  was  accustomed  to  remark,  ''she 
is  turrible  particular." 

How  often  have  we  been  astonished  to  see 
gentlewomen  (I  like  the  good  old  word)  torn 
from  the  harbour  of  sheltered  lives  and  se 
renely  navigating  their  ships  on  the  stormiest 
seas,  but  without  real  cause  for  our  astonish- 


ANTHY  TAKES  COMMAND         195 

ment,  for  they  have  merely  applied  in  a  wider 
field  that  genius  for  command  and  organiza 
tion  which  they  have  long  cultivated  in  their 
households.  We  may  yet  come  to  look  upon 
many  of  the  functions  of  government  as  only 
a  larger  kind  of  housekeeping,  and  find  that 
we  cannot  afford  to  dispense  longer  with  the 
executive  genius  of  women  in  all  those  activi 
ties  which  deal  with  the  comforts  of  human 
kind.  (It's  true,  Harriet.) 

Mrs.  Parker,  as  I  have  said,  having  some 
thing  on  her  mind,  was  in  condition  of  un 
stable  equilibrium. 

"When  you  was  little,  Anthy,"  she  began 
finally,  "I  used  to  tell  you  to  put  on  your 
rubbers  when  you  went  out  in  the  rain,  and 
to  take  your  umbrella  to  school,  and  not  for 
get  your  'rithmetic.  Didn't  I,  Anthy?" 

"Why,  yes,  Margaret."  Anthy  was  much 
mystified. 

Old  Mrs.  Parker  paused:  "Well,  I  don't 
approve  of  this  Norton  Carr." 

Anthy  laughed.  "Why,  what's  the  matter 
with  Norton  Carr?" 

Old  Mrs.  Parker  closed  her  lips  and  wagged 
her  head  with  a  world  of  dark  significance. 

"What  is  it,  Margaret?" 


196  HEMPFIELD 

Mrs.  Parker  lowered  her  voice. 

"He  stimmylates,"  she  said. 

It  was  about  the  worst  she  could  have  said 
about  poor  Nort,  except  one  thing — in  Hemp- 
field. 

Anthy  tried  to  draw  her  out  still  further, 
but  not  another  word  would  she  say.  A  long 
time  afterward,  when  Anthy  told  me  of  this 
incident  (how  I  have  coveted  the  knowledge 
of  every  least  thing  in  the  lives  of  Nort  and 
Anthy!),  when  she  told  me,  she  said  reflec 
tively:  "I  can't  tell  you  how  those  words 
hurt  me." 

And  then  came  the  surprising  telephone  call 
from  the  old  Captain,  with  the  news  that  he 
had  discharged  Ed  Smith! 

It  was  characteristic  of  Anthy  that  when 
she  put  down  the  telephone  receiver  she  was 
laughing.  The  tone  of  the  Captain's  voice 
and  the  picture  she  had  of  him,  dramatically 
discharging  Ed,  were  irresistible.  But  it  was 
only  for  a  moment,  and  the  old  problem  of 
the  Star  leaped  at  her  again.  In  the  letters 
to  Lincoln  here  in  my  desk  I  find  that  she 
referred  to  it  repeatedly:  "Ed  Smith  will 
not  get  on  much  longer  with  our  vagabond, 
who  isn't  really  a  vagabond  at  all;  and  as  for 


ANTHY  TAKES  COMMAND         197 

Uncle  Newt,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  grows 
more  difficult  every  day.  What  shall  I  do?" 

Now  that  the  crisis  was  here,  she  was  very 
quiet  about  it.  When  she  had  put  on  her 
hat  she  stepped  for  a  moment  into  the  quiet, 
old-fashioned  living-room,  where  her  desk  was, 
and  the  fireplace  before  which  she  and  her 
father  had  sat  together  for  so  many,  many 
evenings,  and  the  picture  of  Lincoln  over  the 
mantel.  She  had  not  changed  it  in  the  least 
particular  since  her  father's  death,  and  it  had 
always  a  soothing  effect  upon  her:  the  picture 
of  her  mother,  the  familiar,  well-thumbed 
books  which  her  father  had  delighted  in,  the 
very  chair  where  he  loved  to  sit.  She  did  not 
feel  bold  or  confident,  but  the  moment  in  the 
old  room  gave  her  a  curious  sense  of  calmness, 
as  though  there  were  something  strong  and 
sure  back  of  her.  She  glanced  up  quickly  at 
the  countenance  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  and  turned 
and  went  out  of  the  house. 

The  explosion  at  the  office  had  been  followed 
by  a  dead  calm.  We  were  all  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  Anthy.  After  all,  she  was  the 
owner  of  the  Star.  What  would  she  do  ? 

I  saw  Ed  Smith  glancing  surreptitiously 
out  of  the  window,  and  even  the  old  Captain, 


198  HEMPFIELD 

in  spite  of  his  jauntiness,  seemed  ill  at  ease. 
Only  Fergus  remained  undisturbed.  That 
Scotchman  continued  working  steadily  at  the 
cases. 

'You  took  it  coolly,  Fergus,"  I  said  to  him 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Got  to  print  a  paper  this  week,"  he  ob 
served. 

I  verily  believe  if  we  had  all  deserted  our 
jobs  Fergus  would  have  brought  out  the  Star 
as  usual  on  Wednesday,  a  little  curtailed,  per 
haps,  but  on  the  dot. 

Anthy  came  in  looking  perfectly  calm.  Ed 
Smith  jumped  from  his  seat  at  once. 

"See  here,  Miss  Doane,"  he  began  excitedly, 
"what  right  has  the  Captain  to  discharge  me?" 

The  old  Captain  had  arisen,  too,  and  very 
formidable  he  looked.  But  my  eyes  were  on 
Anthy.  She  stepped  over  to  her  uncle's  side. 
She  had  a  deep  affection  for  this  old  uncle  of 
hers.  "Look  out  for  your  Uncle  Newt,"  her 
father  had  said  in  the  letter  she  found  after 
his  death.  She  put  her  arm  through  his,  drew 
him  toward  her,  and  looking  up  at  him,  smiled 
a  little. 

"What  right  has  the  Captain  to  discharge 
me?"  demanded  Ed  Smith. 


ANTHY  TAKES  COMMAND         199 

"No  right  at  all,"  she  said. 

'There!"  exclaimed  Ed,  exultantly. 

"But  I  have  the  right,"  said  Anthy,  "if  I 
choose  to  exert  it." 

There  was  a  curious  finality  in  her  voice- 
calmness  and  finality.  The  old  Captain  was 
frowning,  but  Anthy  held  him  close  by  the 
arm.  A  moment  of  silence  followed.  I  sup 
pose  we  must,  indeed,  have  been  an  absurd 
group  of  men  standing  there  helplessly,  for 
Anthy  surveyed  us  with  a  swift  glance. 

"What  are  you  all  so  serious  about?"  she 
asked. 

While  we  were  awkwardly  bestirring  our 
selves,  Anthy  took  off  her  hat,  just  as  usual, 
put  on  her  apron,  just  as  usual.  It  was  the 
natural-born  genius  of  Anthy  to  have  the 
orderly  wheels  of  life  running  again.  And 
presently,  standing  near  the  Captain's  littered 
desk,  she  exclaimed: 

"At  last,  at  last,  Uncle  Newt,  you've  writ 
ten  your  editorial  on  Roosevelt!" 

She  picked  up  the  manuscript. 

"Yes,  Anthy,"  rumbled  the  Captain,  "I 
have  written  my  convictions  about  the  Colo 
nel.  It  was  a  duty  I  had." 

The    Captain   was    not   yet    placated,    but 


200  HEMPFIELD 

there  was  no  resisting  Anthy  very  long.  "  Da 
vid  will  never  be  satisfied  until  he  hears  it," 
she  said.  She  looked  over  the  pages.  "Have 
you  said  exactly  what  you  think,  Uncle?" 

" Exactly,"  said  the  Captain;  "I  could  not 
do  less.  But  I  wanted  Nort  to  hear  it." 

"Well,  where  is  Mr.  Carr?"  asked  Anthy, 
looking  about  in  surprise. 

For  a  moment  no  one  said  a  word.  And 
then  Ed  Smith  spoke: 

"  We've  simply  got  to  cut  down  expenses. 
I  hired  Carr  when  I  thought  we  needed  a  cheap 
man  to  help  Fergus — -and  now  I've  let  him  go." 

For  a  moment  Anthy  stood  silent,  and  just 
a  little  rigid,  I  thought.  But  it  was  only  for 
a  moment. 

"We  were  going  to  have  Uncle's  editorial, 
weren't  we?  Mr.  Carr  can  see  it  later." 

She  was  now  in  complete  command.  She 
got  the  Captain  down  into  his  chair  and  put 
the  manuscript  in  his  hand.  He  cleared  his 
throat,  threw  back  his  head,  pleased  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"It  was  a  hard  duty,  but  here  it  is,"  he  said, 
and  began  reading  in  a  resonant  voice: 

"We  have  hesitated  long  and  considered 
deeply  before  expressing  the  views  of  the  Star 


ANTHY  TAKES  COMMAND         201 

upon  the  recent  sad  apostasy  of  Theodore 
Roosevelt.  We  loved  him  like  a  son.  We 
gloried  in  him  as  in  an  older  brother.  We 
followed  that  bright  figure  (in  a  manner  of 
speaking)  when  he  fought  on  the  bloody  slopes 
of  San  Juan,  we  were  with  him  when  he 
marched  homeward  in  his  hour  of  triumph  to 
the  plaudits  of  a  grateful  nation— 

The  Captain  narrated  vividly  how  the  Star 
had  stood  staunchly  with  that  peerless  leader 
through  every  campaign.  And  then  his  voice 
changed  suddenly,  he  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  But  we  are  with  him  no  longer.  We 
know  him  now  no  more- 
He  mourned  him  as  a  son  gone  astray,  as  a 
follower  after  vain  gods.  I  remember  just 
how  Nort  looked  when  he  read  this  part  of  the 
editorial  some  time  afterward,  glancing  up 
quickly.  "Isn't  it  great!  Doesn't  it  make 
you  think  of  old  King  David:  'Oh,  my  son 
Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  Absalom!" 

But  the  editorial  was  not  all  mournful.  It 
closed  with  a  triumphant  note.  There  was 
no  present  call  to  be  discouraged  about  the 
nation  or  the  Grand  Old  Party.  Leaders 
might  come  and  go,  but  the  party  of  Lincoln, 
the  party  of  Grant,  the  party  of  Garfield,  with 


202  HEMPFIELD 

undiminished  lustre,  would  march  ever  onward 
to  victory. 

'The  Star,"  he  writes,  "will  remain  faith 
ful  to  its  allegiance.  The  Star  is  old-line 
Republican,  Cooper  Union  Republican — the 
unchanging  Republicanism  of  the  great-soulecl 
McKinley  and  of  Theodore  Roosevelt — be 
fore  his  apostasy." 

It  was  wonderful!  No  editorial  ever  pub 
lished  in  the  Hempfield  Star  or,  so  far  as  I 
could  learn,  in  any  paper  in  the  county,  was 
ever  as  widely  copied  throughout  the  country 
as  this  one — copied,  indeed,  by  some  editors 
who  did  not  know  or  love  the  old  Captain  as 
we  did. 

After  such  a  stormy  morning  it  was  won 
derful  to  see  how  quickly  the  troubled  atmos 
phere  of  the  Star  began  to  clear.  Four  rather 
sheepish-looking  men  began  to  work  with  a 
complete  show  of  absorption,  while  Anthy 
acted  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

But  there  was  one  thing  still  on  her  mind. 
When  I  started  for  home,  toward  noon,  she 
followed  me  out  on  the  little  porch. 

"David,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

She  hesitated. 


ANTHY  TAKES  COMMAND          203 

"I  want  you  to  find  Norton  Carr." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.     "He  hasn't 

been  quite  fairly  treated." 

She   smiled,   and   looked    at    me   wistfully. 

"  We've  got  to  keep  the  Star  going  somehow, 

haven't  we?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WE    BEGIN    THE    SUBJUGATION    OF    NORT 

HERE  is  a  curious  and  interesting  thing 
often  to  be  noted  by  any  man  who  looks 
around  him,  that  we  human  creatures  are  all 
made  up  into  uneven  and  restless  bundles- 
family  bundles,  church  bundles,  political- 
party  bundles,  and  a  thousand  amusing  kinds 
of  business  bundles.  It  will  also  be  observed 
that  a  very  large  part  of  us,  nearly  all  of  us  who 

204 


THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT      205 

are  old  and  most  of  us  who  are  women,  are 
struggling  as  hard  as  ever  we  can  (and  without 
a  bit  of  humour)  to  hold  our  small  bundles  to 
gether,  while  others  are  struggling  with  equal 
ferocity  to  burst  out  of  their  bundles  and  make 
new  ones.  And  so  on  endlessly! 

If  you  see  any  one  particular  specimen  in 
any  one  particular  bundle  who  is  making  him 
self  obnoxious  by  wriggling  and  squirming  and 
twisting  with  an  utter  disregard  for  the  sen 
sibilities  of  the  bundle-binders,  you  may  con 
clude  that  he  is  affected  by  the  most  mysterious 
influence,  or  power,  or  malady — whatever 
you  care  to  call  it — with  which  we  small 
human  beings  have  to  grapple.  I  mean  that 
he  is  growing.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
the  most  incalculable  power  in  the  life  of  men 
is  the  power  of  growth.  If  you  could  tell  when 
any  given  human  being  was  through  growing, 
you  could  tell  what  to  do  with  him;  but  you 
never  can.  Some  men  are  ripe  at  twenty-five, 
and  some  are  still  adding  power  and  knowledge 
at  eighty.  It  is  not  inheritance,  nor  environ 
ment,  nor  wealth,  nor  position,  that  measures 
the  difference  between  human  beings,  but 
rather  the  mysterious  faculty  of  continued 
growth  which  resides  within  them.  It  is 


206  HEMPFIELD 

growth  that  causes  the  tragedies  of  this  world 
—and  the  comedies — and  the  sheer  beauty  of 
life.  Here  are  a  husband  and  wife  bound  to 
gether  in  the  commonest  of  bundles:  one  stops 
growing,  the  other  keeps  on  growing;  consult 
almost  any  play,  novel,  poem,  newspaper,  or 
scandalous  gossip,  for  the  results.  Consider 
the  restless  bundle  of  nations  called  Europe, 
one  of  which  recently  began  to  grow  tremen 
dously,  began  to  squirm  about  in  the  bundle, 
began  to  demand  room  and  air.  What  an  al 
mighty  pother  this  has  caused !  What  an  alto 
gether  serious  business  for  the  bundle-binders! 

These  observations  may  seem  to  lead  en 
tirely  around  the  celebrated  barn  of  Robin 
Hood,  but  if  you  follow  them  patiently  you 
will  find  that  they  bring  you  back  at  last  (by 
way  of  Europe)  to  the  dilapidated  door  of  the 
quiet  old  printing-office  of  the  Star  of  Hemp- 
field.  If  you  venture  inside  you  will  discover, 
besides  a  cat  and  a  canary,  one  of  the  most 
interesting  bundles  of  human  beings  I  know 
anything  about. 

And  one  specimen  in  this  bundle,  as  you 
may  already  suspect,  has  developed  a  prodigi 
ous  power  of  squirming  and  wriggling,  and 
otherwise  making  the  bundle-binders  of 


THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT      207 

the  Star  uncomfortable.  I  refer  to  Norton 
Carr. 

The  world,  of  course,  is  in  a  secret  con 
spiracy  against  youth  and  growth.  Any  man 
who  dares  to  be  young,  or  to  grow,  or  to  be 
original,  must  expect  to  have  the  world  set 
upon  him  and  pound  him  unmercifully — and 
if  that  doesn't  finish  him  off,  then  the  world 
clings  desperately  to  his  coat  tails,  resolved 
that  if  it  cannot  stop  him  entirely  it  will  at 
least  go  along  with  him  and  make  travelling 
as  difficult  as  possible.  This  latter  process  is 
what  a  friend  of  mine  illuminatively  calls  the 
''drag  of  mediocrity." 

But  this  punching  and  pounding  is  mostly 
good  for  youth  and  originality — good  if  it 
doesn't  kill  for  it  proves  the  strength  of  youth, 
tests  faith  and  enthusiasm,  and  measures  surely 
the  power  of  originality.  And  as  for  the 
provoking  drag  upon  their  coat  tails,  youth 
and  originality  should  reflect  that  this  is  the 
only  way  by  which  mediocrity  ever  gets 
ahead ! 

As  I  look  back  upon  the  history  of  the  Star 
it  seems  to  me  it  is  a  record  of  Nort's  wild 
plunges  within  our  bundle,  and  our  equally 
wild  efforts  to  keep  him  disciplined.  I  say 


208  HEMPFIELD 

"our"  efforts,  but  I  would,  of  course,  except 
Ed  Smith.  Ed  had  a  narrow  vision  of  what 
that  bundle  called  the  Star  should  be.  He 
wanted  it  no  larger  than  he  was,  so  that  he 
could  dominate  it  comfortably,  and  when 
Nort  became  obstreperous,  he  simply  cut  the 
familiar  cord  which  bound  Nort  into  the, 
bundle:  to  wit,  his  wages.  Ed  had  the  very 
common  idea  that  the  only  really  important 
relationships  between  human  beings  are  deter 
mined  by  monetary  payments,  which  can  be 
put  on  or  put  off  at  will.  But  the  fact  is  that 
we  are  bound  together  in  a  thousand  ways  not 
set  down  in  the  books  on  scientific  manage 
ment.  For  example,  if  that  rascal  of  a  Norton 
Carr  had  not  been  so  interesting  to  us  all, 
had  not  so  worked  his  way  into  the  hearts 
of  us,  I  should  never  have  gone  hurrying  after 
him  (at  Anthy's  suggestion)  on  that  Novem 
ber  day.  And  it  might — who  knows — have 
been  better  in  dollars  and  cents  for  the  Star, 
if  I  had  not  hurried.  No,  as  an  old  friend 
of  mine  in  Hempfield,  Howieson,  the  shoe 
maker  (a  wise  man),  often  remarks:  ''They 
say  business  is  business.  Well,  I  say  business 
aint  business  if  it's  all  business."  Business 
grows  not  as  it  eliminates  talent  or  youth, 


THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT       209 

however  prickly  or  irritating  to  work  with, 
but  by  making  itself  big  enough  to  use  all 
kinds  of  human  beings. 

I  recall  yet  the  strange  thrill  I  had  when 
I  left  the  printing-office  that  day  to  search 
for  Nort.  It  had  given  me  an  indescribable 
pleasure  to  have  Anthy  ask  me  to  help  (her 
"we"  lingered  long  in  my  thoughts — lingers 
still),  and  I  had,  moreover,  the  feeling  that 
it  depended  somewhat  on  me  to  help  bind 
together  the  now  fiercely  antagonistic  ele 
ments  of  the  Star. 

It  may  appear  absurd  to  some  who  think 
that  only  those  things  are  great  which  are 
big  and  noisy,  that  anything  so  apparently 
unimportant  should  stir  a  man  as  these  events 
stirred  me;  but  the  longer  I  live  the  more 
doubtful  I  am  of  the  distinction  between  the 
times  and  the  things  upon  which  the  world 
places  the  tags  "Important"  and  "Unimpor 
tant." 

As  I  set  forth  I  remember  how  very  beautiful 
the  streets  of  Hempfield  looked  to  me. 

"Have  you  seen  Norton  Carr?"  I  asked 
here,  and,  "Have  you  seen  Norton  Carr?" 
I  asked  there — tracing  him  from  lair  to  lair, 
and  friend  to  friend,  and  thus  found  myself 


210  HEMPFIELD 

tramping  out  along  the  lower  road  that  leads 
toward  the  west  and  the  river.  He  had  sent 
a  telegram,  I  found  in  the  course  of  my  in 
quiry,  which  added  a  dash  of  mystery  to  my 
quest  and  stirred  in  me  a  curious  sense  of 
anxiety. 

The  very  feeling  of  that  dull  day,  etched 
deep  in  my  memory  by  the  acid  of  emotion, 
comes  vividly  back  to  me.  There  had  been 
no  snow,  and  the  fields  were  brown  and  bare 
—  dead  trees,  dead  hedges  of  hazel  and  cherry, 
crows  flying  heavily  overhead  with  melancholy 
cries,  and  upon  the  hills  beyond  the  river  dull 
clouds  hanging  like  widows'  weeds:  a  brooding 
day. 

At  every  turn  I  looked  for  Nort  and,  thus 
looking,  came  to  the  bridge.  It  was  the  same- 
spot,  the  same  bridge,  where,  some  years 
before,  the  Scotch  preacher  and  I,  driving  late 
one  evening,  looked  anxiously  for  the  girl 
Anna.  I  can  see  her  yet,  wading  there  in  the 
dark  water,  her  skirts  all  floating  about  her, 
hugging  her  child  to  her  breast  and  crying 
piteously,  "I  don't  dare,  oh,  I  don't  dare,  but 
I  must,  I  must!"  Of  all  that  I  have  told 
elsewhere. 

I  stopped  a  moment  and  looked  down  into 


THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT      211 

the  water  where  it  reflected  the  dark  mood  of 
the  day,  and  then  turned  along  the  road  that 
runs  between  the  alders  of  the  river  edge  and 
the  beeches  and  oaks  of  the  hill.  It  was  the 
way  Nort  and  I  had  taken  more  than  once, 
talking  great  talk.  I  thought  I  might  find 
him  there. 

And  there,  indeed,  I  did  find  him — and 
know  how  some  old  chivalric  knight  must 
have  felt  when  at  last  he  overtook  the 
quarry  which  was  to  be  the  guerdon  of  his 
lady. 

"I  shall  take  him  back  a  captive,"  I  said 
to  myself. 

Nort  was  sitting  under  a  beech  tree,  looking 
out  upon  the  cold  river.  A  veritable  picture 
of  desolation!  He  was  whistling  in  a  low 
monotone,  a  way  he  had.  Poor  Nort!  Life 
had  opened  the  door  of  ambition  for  him,  just 
a  crack,  and  he  had  caught  glimpses  of  the 
glory  within,  only  to  have  the  door  slammed 
in  his  face.  If  he  had  walked  upon  cerulean 
heights  on  Sunday  he  was  grovelling  in  the 
depths  on  Monday.  It  was  all  as  plain  to 
me  as  I  approached  him  as  if  it  had  been 
written  in  a  book. 

"Hello,  Nort,"  said  I. 


212  HEMPFIELD 

He  started  from  his  place  and  looked  around 
at  me. 

"  Hello,  David,"  said  he  carelessly,  "  What 
brings  you  here?" 

"You  do,"  said  I. 

"I  do!" 

'Yes,  I'm  about  to  take  you  back  to  Hemp- 
field.  The  Star  finds  difficulty  in  twinkling 
without  you." 

I  told  him  what  Anthy  had  said,  and  of 
what  I  felt  to  be  a  new  effort  to  control  the 
policies  of  the  Star.  But  Nort  slowly  shook 
his  head. 

"No,  David.  This  is  the  end.  I  have 
finished  with  Hempfield." 

I  wish  I  could  convey  the  air  of  resigned 
determination  that  was  in  his  words;  also  the 
cynicism.  Pooh!  If  Hempfield  didn't  want 
him,  Hempfield  could  go  hang.  He  was  at 
the  age  when  he  thought  he  could  get  away 
from  life.  He  had  not  learned  that  the  only 
way  to  get  on  with  life  is  not  to  get  out  of  it, 
but  to  get  into  it. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  wired  for  money 
to  go  home;  he  drew  his  brows  down  in 
a  hard  scowl  and  stared  out  over  the 
river. 


21 


"I've  stopped  fooling  with  life,"  said  he 
tragically. 

I  could  have  laughed  at  him,  and  yet,  some 
how,  I  loved  him.  It  was  a  great  moment  in 
his  life.  I  sat  down  by  him  under  the  beech. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  free,"  said  Nort.  "  I'm  go 
ing  to  do  things  yet  in  this  world." 

"  Free  of  what,  Nort  ? "  I  asked. 

"Ed  Smith — for  one  thing." 

"Have  you  thought  that  wherever  you 
go  you  will  be  meeting  Ed  Smiths?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said,  "that  you've  surren 
dered." 

"Surrendered?"  He  winced  as  though  I 
had  cut  him. 

'Yes,  surrendered.  Haven't  you  sent  for 
money?  Haven't  you  given  up?  Aren't  you 
trying  to  run  away?" 

Nort  jumped  from  his  place. 

"No!"  he  shouted.  "Ed  Smith  discharged 
me.  I  would  rather  cut  off  my  right  hand 
than  work  in  the  same  county  with  him 
again." 

"So  you  have  balked  at  the  first  hurdle  - 
and  are  going  to  run  away!" 

I    have   thought   often   since   then   of  that 


2i4  HEMPFIELD 

perilous    moment,    of   how    much    in    Nort's 
future  life  turned  upon  it. 

Nort's  eyes,  usually  so  blue  and  smiling, 
grew  as  black  as  night. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"I  mean  just  what  I  said"  —I  looked  him 
in  the  eye—  "you  are  running  away  before  the 
battle  begins." 

For  a  moment  I  thought  I  had  lost  him,  and 
my  heart  began  to  sink  within  me,  and  then— 
it  was  beautiful — he  stepped  impulsively  to 
ward  me: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  I  should  do, 
anyway?" 

"Nort,"  I  said,  "only  yesterday  you  were 
enthusiastic  over  the  idea  of  getting  the  truth 
about  Hempfield,  of  publishing  a  really  great 
country  newspaper." 

"What  an  ass  I  was!" 

"Wrong!  "I  said. 

"David,"  he  cut  in  petulantly,  "I  don't 
get  what  you  mean." 

"I'll  tell  you,  Nort:  The  greatest  joy  in 
this  world  to  a  man  like  you  is  the  joy  of  new 
ideas,  of  wonderful  plans—  Now,  isn't 
it?" 

"Yes.     I  certainly  thought  for  a  few  days 


THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT      215 

last  week  that  I  had  found  the  pot  at  the  end 
of  the  rainbow/' 

"  It  was  only  the  rainbow,  Nort :  if  you  want 
the  pot  you've  got  to  dig  for  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

'You  think  that  you  can  stop  with  enthu 
siastic  dreams  and  vast  ideas.  But  no  vision 
and  no  idea  is  worth  a  copper  cent  unless  it 
is  brought  down  to  earth,  patiently  harnessed, 
painfully  trained,  and  set  to  work.  There 
is  a  beautiful  analogy  that  comes  often  to  my 
mind.  We  conceive  an  idea,  as  a  child  is 
conceived,  in  a  transport  of  joy;  but  after  that 
there  are  long  months  of  growth  in  the  close 
dark  warmth  of  the  soul,  to  which  every  part 
of  one's  personality  must  contribute,  and  then 
there  is  the  painful  hour  of  travail  when  at 
last  the  idea  is  given  to  the  world.  It  is  a 
process  that  cannot  be  hurried  nor  borne  with 
out  suffering.  And  the  punishment  of  those 
who  stop  with  the  joy  of  conception,  thinking 
they  can  skim  the  delight  of  life  and  avoid 
its  pain,  is  the  same  in  the  intellectual  and 
spiritual  spheres  as  it  is  in  the  physical- 
barrenness,  Nort,  and  finally  a  terrible  sense  of 
failure  and  of  loneliness." 

I  said  it  with  all  my  soul,  as  I  believe  it. 


216  HEMPFIELD 

When  I  stopped,  Nort  did  not  at  once  respond, 
but  stood  looking  off  across  the  river,  winding 
a  twig  of  alder  about  his  finger.  Suddenly  he 
looked  around  at  me,  smiling: 

"I'm  every  kind  of  a  fool  there  is,  David." 

I  confess  it,  my  heart  gave  a  bound  of  tri 
umph.  And  it  seemed  to  me  at  that  moment 
that  I  loved  Nort  like  a  son,  the  son  I  have 
never  had.  I  could  not  help  slipping  my  arm 
through  his,  and  thus  we  walked  slowly  to 
gether  down  the  road. 

"But  Ed  Smith—  '  he  expostulated  pres 
ently. 

"Nort,"  I  said,  "you  aren't  the  only  person 
in  this  world,  although  you  are  inclined  to 
think  so.  There  are  Ed  Smiths  everywhere 
—and  old  Captains  and  David  Graysons — and 
you  may  travel  where  you  like  and  you'll  find 
just  about  such  people  as  you  find  at  Hemp- 
field,  and  they'll  treat  you  just  about  as  you 
deserve.  Ed  Smith  is  the  test  of  you,  Nort, 
and  of  your  enthusiasms.  You've  got  to  rec 
oncile  your  ideas  with  corned  beef  and  cabbage 
Nort,  for  corned  beef  and  cabbage  is." 

I  have  been  ashamed  sometimes  since  when 
I  think  how  vaingloriously  I  preached  to  Nort 
that  day  (after  having  got  him  down),  for  I 


THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT       217 

have  never  believed  much  in  preaching.     It 
usually  grows  so  serious  that  I  want  to  laugh 
—but  I  could  not  have  helped  it  that  Novem 
ber  afternoon. 

I  see  two  men,  just  at  evening  of  a  dull  day, 
walking  slowly  along  the  road  toward  Hemp- 
field,  two  gray  figures,  half  indistinguishable 
against  the  barren  hillsides.  All  about  them 
the  dead  fields  and  the  hedges,  and  above 
them  the  wintry  gray  of  the  sky,  and  crows 
lifting  and  calling.  Knowing  well  what  is  in 
the  hot  hearts  of  those  two  men — the  visions, 
the  love,  the  pain,  the  hope,  yes,  and  the  evil  — 
I  swear  I  shall  never  again  think  of  any  life  as 
common  or  unclean.  I  shall  never  look  to  the 
exceptional  events  of  life  for  the  truth  of  life. 

The  two  men  I  see  are  friend  and  friend, 
very  near  together,  father  and  son  almost; 
and  you  would  scarcely  think  it,  but  if  you 
look  closely  and  with  that  Eye  which  is  within 
the  eye  you  will  see  that  they  have  just  been 
called  to  the  colours  and  are  going  forth  to  the 
Great  War.  You  will  catch  the  glint  on  the 
scabbards  of  the  swords  they  carry;  you  will 
see  the  look  of  courage  on  the  face  of  the 
young  recruit,  and  the  look,  too,  on  the  face 


2i8  HEMPFIELD 

of  the  old  reservist.  In  the  distance  they  see 
the  fortress  of  Hempfield  with  its  redoubts 
and  entanglements.  They  are  setting  forth 
to  take  Hempfield,  at  any  cost — their  Cap 
tain  commands  it. 

Near  the  town  of  Hempfield,  as  you  ap 
proach  it  from  the  west,  the  road  skirts  a  little 
hill.  As  we  drew  nearer  I  saw  some  one  walk 
ing  upon  the  road.  A  woman.  She  was  step 
ping  forth  firmly,  her  figure  cut  in  strong  and 
simple  lines  against  the  sky,  her  head  thrown 
back,  showing  the  clear  contour  of  her  throat 
and  the  firm  chin.  A  light  scarf,  caught  in  the 
wind,  floated  behind.  Suddenly  I  felt  Nort 
seize  my  arm,  and  exclaim  in  low,  tense  voice: 

"Anthy!" 

I  thought  his  hand  trembled  a  little,  but 
it  may  have  been  my  own  arm.  I  remember 
hearing  our  steps  ring  cold  on  the  iron  earth, 
and  I  had  a  strange  sense  of  the  high  things  of 
life. 

She  had  not  seen  us.  She  was  walking  with 
one  hand  lifted  to  her  breast,  the  fingers  just 
touching  her  dress,  in  a  way  she  sometimes 
had.  I  shall  not  forget  the  swift,  half-startled 
glance  from  her  dark  and  glowing  eyes  when 


THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT      219 

she  saw  us,  nor  the  smile  which  suddenly 
lighted  her  face. 

I  suppose  all  of  us  were  charged  at  that  mo 
ment  with  a  high  voltage  of  emotion.  I  know 
that  Anthy,  walking  thus  with  her  hand  raised, 
was  deep  in  the  troubled  problems  of  the  Star. 
I  know  well  what  was  in  the  heart  of  Nort, 
and  I  know  the  vain  thoughts  I  was  thinking; 
and  yet  we  three  stood  there  in  the  gray  of  the 
evening  looking  at  one  another  and  exchang 
ing  at  first  only  a  few  commonplace  words. 

Presently  Anthy  turned  to  Nort  with  the 
direct  way  she  had,  and  said  to  him  lightly, 
smiling  a  little: 

"I  hope  you  will  not  desert  the  Star.  We 
must  make  it  go — all  of  us  together." 

Nort  said  not  a  word,  but  looked  Anthy 
in  the  eyes.  When  we  moved  onward  again, 
however,  his  mood  seemed  utterly  changed. 
He  walked  quickly  and  began  to  talk  volu 
bly — Jiminy!  If  they'd  let  themselves  go! 
Greatest  opportunity  in  New  England!  Na 
tional  reputation — I  could  scarcely  believe 
that  this  was  the  same  Nort  I  had  found  only 
an  hour  before  moping  by  the  river. 

As  we  came  into  Hempfield  the  lights  had 
begun  to  come  out  in  the  houses;  a  belated 


220  HEMPFIELD 

farmer  in  his  lumber  wagon  rattled  down  the 
street.  Men  were  going  into  the  post  office, 
for  it  was  the  hour  of  the  evening  mail;  we  had 
a  whiff,  at  the  corner,  of  the  good  common 
odour  of  cooking  supper.  So  we  stopped  at 
the  gate  of  the  printing-office,  and  looked  at 
each  other,  and  felt  abashed,  did  not  know 
quite  what  to  say,  and  were  about  to  part  awk 
wardly  without  saying  anything  when  Nort 
seized  me  suddenly  by  the  arm  and  rushed  me 
into  the  office. 

"Hello,  Fergus!"  he  shouted  as  we  came  in 
at  the  door. 

Fergus  stood  looking  at  him  impassively, 
saying  nothing  at  all.  He  had  compromised 
himself  once  before  that  day  by  giving  way  to 
his  emotions,  and  did  not  propose  to  be  stam 
peded  a  second  time. 

But  the  old  Captain  had  no  such  compunc 
tions,  and  almost  fell  on  Nort's  neck. 

'The  prodigal  is  returned,"  he  declared. 
"Nort,  my  boy,  I  want  to  read  you  my  edi 
torial  on  Theodore  Roosevelt." 

Just  at  this  moment  Ed  Smith  came  in.  I 
wondered  and  trembled  at  what  might  happen, 
but  Nort  was  in  his  grandest  mood. 

"  Hello,  Ed ! "  he  remarked  carelessly.   "  Say, 


THE   SUBJUGATION  OF  NORT      221 

I've  thought  of  an  idea  for  making  Tole,  the 
druggist,  advertise  in  the  Star." 

'You  have?"  responded  Ed  in  a  reasonably 
natural  voice. 

Thus  we  were  rebundled,  at  least  tempora 
rily.  I  think  of  these  events  as  a  sort  of  dip 
lomatic  prelude  for  the  real  war  which  was  to 
follow.  I  was  the  diplomat  who  lured  Nort 
back  to  us  with  fine  words,  but  old  General 
Fergus  was  waiting  there  grimly  at  the  cases, 
in  full  preparedness,  to  play  his  part.  For 
this  was  not  the  final  struggle,  nor  the  most 
necessary  for  Nort.  That  was  reserved  for  a 
simpler  man  than  I  am:  that  was  left  for 
Fergus. 


CHAPTER  XV 

I    GET    BETTER    ACQUAINTED    WITH    ANTHY 

A")  WE  look  backward,  those  times  in  our 
lives  which  glow  brightest,  seem  most 
worth  while,  are  by  no  means  those  in  which 
we  have  been  happiest  or  most  successful,  but 
rather  those  in  which,  though  painful  and 
even  sorrowful,  we  have  been  most  necessary, 
most  desired.  To  be  needed  in  other  human 
lives — is  there  anything  greater  or  more  beau 
tiful  in  this  world  ? 

It  was  in  the  weeks  that  followed  upon  these 
events  that  I  came  to  know  Anthy  best,  near 
est,  deepest — to  be  of  most  use  to  her  and  to 


222 


I  GET  BETTER  ACQUAINTED      223 

the  Star.  A  strange  thing  it  was,  too;  for  the 
nearer  I  came  to  her,  the  farther  away  I  seemed 
to  find  myself!  She  was  very  wonderful  that 
winter.  I  saw  her  grow,  strengthen,  deepen, 
under  that  test  of  the  spirit,  and  with  a  curious 
unconsciousness  of  her  own  development,  as 
she  show's  in  the  one  letter  to  Lincoln  of  that 
period  which  has  been  saved.  She  seemed  to 
think  it  was  all  a  part  of  the  daily  work;  that 
the  Star  must  be  preserved,  and  that  it  was 
incumbent  upon  her  to  do  it. 

In  those  days  I  was  often  at  her  home, 
sometimes  walking  from  the  office  with  her 
and  the  old  Captain,  sometimes  with  the  old 
Captain,  sometimes  alone  with  Anthy.  She 
was  not  naturally  very  talkative,  especially, 
as  I  found,  with  one  she  knew  well  and 
trusted;  but  I  think  I  have  never  known  any 
other  human  being  who  seemed  so  much 
alive  just  underneath. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  never-to-be-forgotten 
evenings  in  the  old  library  of  her  father's 
house,  with  the  books  all  around,  that  I  came 
first  into  Anthy's  deeper  life.  A  draft  from 
an  open  door  stirred  the  picture  of  Lincoln 
on  the  wall  above  the  mantelpiece,  and  a 
letter,  slipping  from  behind  it,  dropped  almost 


224  HEMPFIELD 

at  my  feet.     I  stooped  and  picked  it  up  and 
read  the  writing  on  the  envelope: 

''  To   Abraham    Lincoln." 

Anthy's  attention  had  been  momentarily 
diverted  to  the  door,  and  she  did  not  see 
what  had  happened. 

"A  letter  to  Lincoln,"  I  said  aloud,  turning 
it  over  in  my  hand. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  she  turned  toward 
me  with  a  quick  intake  of  her  breath,  the 
colour  in  her  face,  and  her  hand  slowly  lifting 
to  her  breast.  She  took  a  step  toward  me,  and 
I,  knowing  that  I  had  somehow  touched  a 
deep  spring  of  her  life,  held  out  the  letter.  A 
moment  we  stood  thus,  a  moment  I  can  never 
torget.  Then  she  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"Read  it,  David." 

I  cut  the  envelope  and  read  the  letter  to 
Lincoln,  and  knew  that  Anthy  had  opened 
a  way  into  her  confidence  for  me  that  had 
never  before  been  opened  to  any  one  else. 

"David,"  she  said,  "I  wanted  you  to  know. 
In  some  ways  you  have  come  closer  to  me 
than  any  one  else  except  my  father." 

She  said  it  without  embarrassment,  straight 


After  that  she  opened  her  heart  more  and  more  to  me — • 
a  little  here,  a  little  there 


I  GET  BETTER  ACQUAINTED      225 

at  me  with  clear  eyes.  I  was  like  her  father. 
I  understood. 

I  begged  that  letter  of  her,  and  others  writ 
ten  both  before  and  after,  and  keep  them  in 
the  securest  part  of  my  golden  treasury. 
After  that  she  opened  her  heart  more  and  more 
to  me — a  little  here,  a  little  there.  I  waited 
for  those  moments,  counted  on  them,  tried  to 
avoid  the  slightest  appearance  of  any  jar 
ring  emotion,  found  them  incomparably  beau 
tiful.  She  gave  me  vivid  glimpses  of  her 
early  life,  of  the  books  she  liked  best  and  the 
poetry,  told  me  with  enthusiasm  of  her  col 
lege  life  and  the  different  girls  who  were  her 
friends  (showing  me  their  pictures),  and  finally, 
and  choicest  of  all,  she  told  me,  a  little  here 
and  a  little  there,  of  the  curious  imaginative 
adventures  which  had  been  so  much  a  part  of 
her  girlhood.  I  presume  I  took  all  these 
things  more  seriously  than  she  did,  for  she 
exhibited  them  in  no  solemn  vein,  as  though 
they  were  important,  but  always  in  an  amus 
ing  or  playful  light — here  with  a  bit  of  mock 
heroics,  there  with  half-wistful  laughter.  And 
yet,  through  it  all,  I  could  see  that  they  had 
meant  a  great  deal  to  her. 

I  think,  I  am  almost  sure,  that  Anthy  had 


226  HEMPFIELD 

never  at  this  time  had  a  love  affair  in  any  ordi 
nary  sense.  To  the  true  romance  and  the 
truly  romantic — and  by  this  I  do  not  mean 
sentimental — the  realities  of  love  are  often 
late  in  coming.  To  the  true  romance  the 
idea  of  marriage  is  at  first  repugnant,  will  not 
be  thought  about,  for  it  seeks  to  square  and 
conventionalize  a  great  burst  of  the  spirit. 
The  inner  life  is  so  keen,  so  vivid,  that  it 
satisfies  itself,  and  it  must  indeed  be  a  prince 
who  would  kiss  awake  the  eyes  of  the  dreamer. 

Some  of  these  things,  when  I  began  this 
narrative,  I  had  no  intention  of  setting  down 
in  cold  type,  for  they  are  among  the  deepest 
experiences  in  my  life,  and  yet  if  I  am  to  give 
an  idea  of  what  Anthy  was  and  of  the  events 
\vhich  followed,  it  is  imposed  upon  me  to  leave 
nothing  out. 

I  do  not  wish  to  indicate,  however,  that 
the  talks  I  had  with  Anthy  usually  or  even 
often  reached  these  depths  of  the  intimate. 
These  were  the  rare  and  beautiful  flowers 
which  blossomed  upon  the  slow-growing 
branches  of  the  tree  of  intimacy.  It  was  a 
curious  thing,  also,  that  while  she  let  me  more 
and  more  deeply  into  her  own  life  she  knew  less 
about  what  was  in  my  life  than  many  other 


I  GET  BETTER  ACQUAINTED      227 

friends,  far  less  even  than  Nort.  Youth  is 
like  that,  too,  and  even  when  essentially  un 
selfish,  it  is  terribly  absorbed  in  the  wonders 
of  its  own  being.  I  knew  what  it  meant.  In 
a  way  it  was  the  price  I  paid  for  the  utter 
trust  she  had  in  me. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    OLD    CAPTAIN    COMES    INTO    HIS    OWN 

IT  WAS  a  great  winter  we  had  in  the  office 
of  the  Star.  It  was  in  those  months  that 
we  really  made  the  Star.  It  was  curious,  in 
deed,  once  we  began  to  be  knitted  together 
in  a  new  bundle — with  Anthy's  quiet  and 
strong  hand  upon  us — how  the  qualities  in 
each  of  us  which  had  seriously  threatened  to 
disrupt  the  organization,  had  set  us  all  by  the 
ears,  were  the  very  qualities  which  contributed 
most  to  the  success  which  followed.  It  all 
seems  clear  enough  now,  though  vague  and 

228 


THE  OLD  CAPTAIN  229 

uncertain  then,  that  what  we  really  did  was 
to  use  the  obstreperous  and  irritating  traits 
of  each  of  us  instead  of  trying  to  repress 
them. 

There  was  the  old  Captain,  for  example. 
Ed  thought  him  a  "dodo,"  and  wanted  to 
put  him  on  the  shelf,  where  many  a  vigorous 
old  man's  heart  has  bitterly  rusted  out  just 
because  his  loving  friends,  lovingly  taking  his 
life  work  out  of  his  hands,  have  been  too 
stupid  to  know  how  to  use  the  treasures  of  his 
experience.  Nort  smiled  at  the  way  he  tour 
neyed  like  Don  Quixote  with  windmills  of 
issues  long  dead,  and  I  was  impatient,  the 
Lord  forgive  me,  with  his  financial  extrava 
gances  at  a  time  when  the  Star  was  barely 
making  a  living.  But  Anthy  loved  him. 

I  don't  know  exactly  how  it  came  about,  but 
one  evening  when  we  were  all  in  the  office 
together  the  talk  turned  on  the  Civil  War. 
Some  one  asked  the  Captain: 

'You  knew  General  McClellan  personally, 
didn't  you,  Cap'n?" 

I  remember  how  the  old  Captain  squared 
himself  up  in  his  chair. 

"Yes,  I  knew  Little  Mac.  I  knew  Little 
Mac " 


230  HEMPFIELD 

It  took  nothing  at  all  to  set  the  Captain 
off,  and  he  was  soon  in  full  flood. 

"I  said  to  Little  Mac,  riding  to  him  at  full 
gallop  .  .  .  and  Little  Mac  said  to  me: 

"Captain  Doane.' 
'Yes,  sir,  General,'  said  I. 

"'Do  you  see  that  rebel  battery  down 
there  on  the  hillside?' 

"'I  do,  General.' 

"'Well,  Cap'n  Doane,'  said  he,  'that  bat 
tery  must  be  taken — at  any  cost.  May  I 
depend  on  you?' 

"General,'  said  I,  'I  will  do  my  duty,'  and 
I  wheeled  on  my  horse  and  rode  to  the  front 
of  my  troop. 

'  Forward— March  !    Draw — Sabres  !   Gal 
lop—  Charge  !— 

By  this  time  the  old  Captain  was  on  his 
feet,  cane  in  hand  for  a  sabre,  the  wonderful 
light  of  a  by-gone  conflict  shining  in  his  eyes. 
I  could  see  him  charging  down  the  hill  with 
his  clattering  troop;  hear  the  clash  of  arms  and 
the  roll  of  musketry;  see  the  flags  flying  and 
the  men  falling — dust  and  smoke  and  heat 
—the  cry  of  wounded  horses.  .  .  .  They 
took  the  battery. 

Well,  when  he  finished  his  story  that  even- 


THE  OLD  CAPTAIN  231 

ing  there  was  a  pause,  and  then  I  saw  Anthy 
suddenly  lean  forward,  her  hands  clasped 
hard  and  her  face  glowing. 

"Such  stories  as  that,"  she  said,  "ought  not 
to  be  lost,  Uncle  Newt.     They  are  good  for 
people.     The  coming  generation  doesn't  know 
what  its  fathers  suffered  and  struggled  for— 
or  what  the  country  owes  to  them—  And 

then,  wistfully:  "I  wish  those  stories  might 
never  be  lost." 

Instantly  Nort  sprung  from  his  chair,  for 
great  ideas  when  they  arrived  seemed  to  prick 
him  physically  as  well  as  mentally. 

"Say,"  he  almost  shouted,  "I  have  it! 
Let's  have  the  Cap'n  write  the  story  of  his 
life — and,  by  Jiminy,  publish  it  in  the  Star. 
Everybody  knows  the  Cap'n — they'd  eat  it 
up.': 

It  was  Nort's  genius  that  he  could  see,  in 
stantly,  the  greater  possibilities  of  things,  and 
his  suggestion  quite  carried  us  away.  We  all 
began  to  talk  at  once: 

"Print  the  Captain's  picture,  a  big  one 
on  the  first  page.  A  story  every  week.  Why, 
he  knew  James  G.  Blaine— 

Anthy  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes 
like  stars,  looked  at  Nort,  and  looked  at  him. 


232  HEMPFIELD 

When  we  went  out  that  night  the  old  Cap 
tain  threw  a  big  arm  over  Nort's  shoulder. 
The  tears  were  running  quite  unheeded  down 
the  old  fellow's  face. 

"Nort,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "I  love  you  like  a 
son." 

He  was  happier  that  night  than  he  had  been 
before  in  years. 

The  next  morning  Nort  appeared  at  the 
office  with  a  tremendous  announcement, 
headed :  Captain  Doane's  Story  of  His  Life, 
which  would,  on  a  conservative  estimate,  have 
filled  an  entire  page  of  the  Star.  And  the 
old  Captain,  who  need  never  have  taken  off  his 
hat  to  Dickens  or  Dumas  where  copiousness 
was  concerned,  began  to  write — enormously. 
The  dear  old  fellow,  looking  back  into  his 
own  past,  discovered  anew  a  hero  after  his 
own  heart,  and  as  the  incidents  jumped  at 
him  out  of  his  memory,  he  could  scarcely 
put  them  down  fast  enough.  He  filled  reams 
of  yellow  copy  paper. 

With  the  first  article  we  published  a  three- 
column  half-tone  portrait  of  the  Captain,  his 
head  turned  a  little  to  one  side  to  show  the 
full  lift  of  his  brow,  and  one  hand  thrust  care 
lessly  and  yet  artfully  into  the  bosom  of  his 


THE  OLD  CAPTAIN  233 

long  coat.  Oh,  very  wonderful!  The  first 
article,  headed, 

EARLY  MEMORIES  OF  HEMPFIELD 

was  really  excellent,  after  Anthy  had  cut  out 
two  thirds  of  the  old  Captain's  copy — which 
no  other  one  of  us  would  have  dared  to  do. 

Well,  in  an  old  town,  in  an  old  country, 
where  the  memories  of  many  people  reached 
far  back,  where  many  had  known  Captain 
Doane  all  their  lives,  this  article  instantly 
found  sympathetic  readers,  and  began  to  be 
talked  about.  We  felt  it  at  once  in  the  demand 
for  papers.  Later  came  the  stories  of  early 
political  affairs  in  Hempfield  and,  indeed,  in 
New  England,  and  stories  of  the  war  which 
were  really  thrilling.  Other  headings  were: 
"Haw  I  Met  General  McClellan"  and  "Remi 
niscences  of  James  G.  Elaine.'" 

These  not  only  awakened  local  interest,  but 
they  began  to  be  clipped  and  quoted  in  outside 
newspapers,  even  in  Boston  and  New  York. 
A  reporter  was  sent  down  from  Boston  to 
"write  up"  the  old  Captain.  It  was  quite  a 
triumph.  The  Captain  began  to  have  vis 
itors,  old  friends  and  old  citizens,  as  he  had 


234  HEMPFIELD 

never  had  before.  They  became  almost  a 
nuisance  in  the  office.  But  the  Captain  was 
in  his  element:  he  thrived  on  it;  his  eye 
brightened;  he  walked,  if  possible,  still  more 
erect.  His  very  mood,  indeed,  for  his  fighting 
blood  was  up,  gave  us  some  difficult  problems. 
Nearly  every  week  he  would  pause  in  the 
course  of  his  narrative  to  smite  the  Democratic 
party,  to  cry  "Fudge"  at  flying  machines, 
or  to  visit  his  scorn  upon  the  "initiative, 
referendum  and  recall."  And  one  week  he  cut 
loose  grandly  upon  woman  suffrage,  after  he 
had  first  expressed  his  chivalric  admiration  for 
the  "gentle  sex"  and  quoted  Sir  Walter  Scott: 

"Oh,  woman,  in  our  hours  of  ease 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please,"  etc.,  etc. 

Nort  brought  me  the  copy,  laughing. 

"I  asked  the  Captain,"  he  said,  "if  he 
thought  Anthy  was  uncertain,  coy,  and  hard 
to  please." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  waved  me  aside.  'Oh,  Anthy!'  he 
said,  as  if  she  did  not  count  at  all.  You  know 
how  the  Captain  lays  down  the  eternal  laws  of 
life  and  then  lets  all  his  personal  friends  break 


THE  OLD  CAPTAIN  235 

'em!  .  .  .  What  would  you  do  about  the 
passage,  anyway?" 

"Why  print  it,"  I  said.  "It's  the  old  Cap 
tain  himself." 

And  print  it  we  did. 


^m^-M- 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  WHICH  CERTAIN  DEEP  MATTERS  OF  THE 
HEART  ARE  PRESENTED 

ED  SMITH  and  Nort  must  have  tried 
Anthy  terribly  in  these  days,  Nort  prob 
ably  far  more  than  Ed,  because  he  was  a  more 
complicated  human  being,  less  broken  to  any 
sort  of  harness,  and  blest  (or  cursed)  with  an 
amazing  gift  of  intimacy.  Like  many  people 
who  live  most  vividly  within,  he  never  seemed 
to  have  any  proper  idea  of  the  lines  which  sep 
arate  human  beings.  To  some  conventional 
natures  the  most  refined  meanings  attach  to 
their  "Good  mornings "  and  "  How-d'ye  does," 
and  their  confidences,  shut  away  in  a  close 

236 


DEEP  MATTERS  OF  THE  HEART  237 

inner  sanctum,  like  the  high  court  of  a  secret 
society,  are  only  to  be  approached  ceremoni 
ally  by  those  who  have  the  insignia  and  the 
password;  and  where,  having  arrived  and  ex 
pecting  hidden  wonders  and  beauties,  you  dis 
cover  only  still  more  ceremonial.  A  truly 
conventional  person  cuts  the  same  at  the  core 
as  at  the  rind. 

Nort  never  seemed  to  remember  that  most 
people  one  meets  love  to  fence  politely  about 
the  weather  or  the  state  of  their  health,  but 
incontinently  whacked  them  at  once  on  their 
raw  souls  with  whatever  poker  he  might  then 
be  mending  the  fires  of  his  heart.  And  he 
did  it  all,  never  crudely,  but  with  such  irre 
pressible  and  beguiling  spirits,  with  such  con 
fidence  that  whatever  interested  him  most  at 
the  moment  must  also  interest  you — as  it 
usually  did  -  that  he  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

Now  I  do  not  believe  that  Nort  at  this  time 
had  any  conscious  idea  of  making  love  to 
Anthy,  certainly  not  of  falling  in  love  with  her. 
He  was  entirely  too  much  absorbed  in  Nort. 
But  he  turned  toward  her  as  instinctively  as 
a  flower  turns  to  the  sun,  and  was  a  hundred 
times  more  dangerous  to  a  girl  like  Anthy  for 
being  just  what  he  was.  He  liked  to  be  with 


238  HEMPFIELD 

her,  felt  comfortable  with  her,  thought  of  his 
place  in  the  office  as  her  employee,  when  he 
thought  of  it  at  all,  as  a  rather  uncomfortable 
joke,  and  stepped  irresistibly  within  the  de 
fences  of  her  reserve,  and  in  spite  of  every 
thing  remained  there.  He  told  her  what  he 
thought  about  newspapers,  baseball,  the  im 
mortality  of  the  soul,  dress  clothes,  and  the 
novels  of  H.  G.  Wells,  looking  at  her  some 
times  with  a  little  wrinkle  of  earnestness  be 
tween  his  eyes,  but  oftener  with  a  look  of 
amusement — yes,  of  deviltry — which  said  to 
her  as  plainly  as  words  could  have  framed  it: 

'You  and  I  have  a  wonderful  secret  between 
us,  haven't  we?" 

He  was  apparently  oblivious  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  a  woman  at  all,  and  yet  away 
down  within  him,  as  the  ocean  knows  of  the 
primeval  monsters  hidden  in  its  depths,  he 
knew  that  Anthy  was  a  woman:  knew  it  with 
a  dumb  and  swelling  strength  he  himself  had 
never  fathomed;  and  he  knew,  too,  with  that 
instinctive  knowledge  which  is  the  deepest  of 
all — such  is  the  trickiness  of  the  human  spirit 

—that  this  was  the  way  of  all  ways  to  reach 
Anthy. 

When  I  think  of  the  Nort  of  those  days,  all 


DEEP  MATTERS  OF  THE  HEART  239 

the  lawless  possibilities  of  his  ardent  temper 
ament,  I  wonder  and  I  tremble!  I  wonder 
sometimes  at  the  miracle  by  which  youth  ever 
escapes  destruction.  And  in  Nort's  case,  as 
in  Anthy's,  it  was  a  narrow,  narrow  margin, 
as  I  know  better  than  any  one  else.  Poor 
Nort! 

Happy  Nort!  No  such  close  confidences 
existed  between  Anthy  and  him  as  between 
Anthy  and  me.  Nort  knew  nothing  of  the 
deep  and  beautiful  life  within  which  she  had 
shown  to  me — and  me  alone — could  not  at 
that  time  have  understood  it,  if  he  had  known 
of  it  (so  I  think),  and  yet  there  he  was,  a  mere 
boy,  a  stranger  almost,  closer  to  her  than  I 
was.  A  strange  thing,  life! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NORT    SNIFFS 

I  HAD  thought  the  life  in  the  office  of  the 
Star  exciting  enough  before  the  explosion 
which  resulted  in  the  discharge  of  Norton 
Carr,  as  indeed  it  was,  but  it  was  really  not 
to  be  compared  with  that  which  followed. 
No  sooner  had  Nort  returned  than  his  spirits 
again  began  to  soar.  He  felt  that  he  now  had 
Anthy's  influence  strongly  behind  him,  and 


NORT  SNIFFS  241 

that,  no  matter  what  happened,  Ed  Smith 
could  not  interfere  with  him.  Ed  himself 
accepted  the  situation  as  gracefully  as  he 
could,  and  comforted  himself  with  the  reflec 
tion  that  Nort  was,  after  all,  receiving  no 
more  wages  than  before. 

Nort  had  at  least  one  clear  characteristic 
that  must  belong  to  genius — he  dared  let  him 
self  go.  He  had  supreme  confidence  in  him 
self.  Most  men  when  they  spread  their 
wings  and  sail  off  into  the  blue  empyrean  more 
than  half  expect  to  fall,  but  Nort  never  cast 
his  eye  downward  nor  doubted  the  strength 
of  his  wings. 

I  have  only  to  close  my  eyes  to  see  him,  his 
whole  slim,  strong  body  suddenly  stiffening, 
quivering  under  the  impact  of  an  idea — a 
"great  idea"  it  always  was  with  him — his 
eyes  suddenly  growing  dark  with  excitement, 
his  legs  nervously  bestirring  themselves  to 
carry  him  up  and  down  the  room,  while  he 
thrust  one  hand  through  his  hair  and  with  the 
other  emphasized  the  torrent  of  exclamations 
which  poured  out  of  him.  At  these  moments 
lie  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  human  be 
ings  that  ever  I  have  seen.  And  in  the  midst 
of  his  wild  enthusiasms  he  was  as  likely  as 


242  HEMPFIELD 

not,  at  any  moment,  to  see  some  absurd  or 
humorous  angle  of  the  subject  he  was  talk 
ing  about,  and  to  burst  suddenly  into  laugh 
ter,  laughter  at  himself  and  at  us  for  listening 
soberly  to  him.  He  never  let  us  laugh  first! 

One  of  his  early  suggestions  after  he  came 
back  was  the  autobiography  of  the  old  Cap 
tain,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken.  He  knew 
it  would  be  a  success,  as  indeed  it  was,  a  very 
great  success;  but  it  was  only  one  of  a  hundred 
things  which  Nort  suggested  during  that  winter. 

"Say,  Ed,"  he  said  one  day,  "why  can't 
we  get  a  new  turn  on  our  advertisements, 
make  'em  interesting!" 

Ed  looked  at  him  incredulously.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

Ed  considered  himself  a  pastmaster  in  the  art 
of  getting,  writing,  and  composing  advertise 
ments,  and  he  rather  resented  Nort's  sug 
gestion. 

"Why,"  said  Nort,  "look  at  'em!  They're 
all  just  alike,  and  nobody  cares  to  read  'em: 
'Respectfully  informs,'  'Most  reasonable 
terms,'  'Solicits  continuance!" 

Nort  spread  open  the  paper  with  growing 
glee.  Anthy  was  already  laughing. 

"And  look  here,"  he  snorted,  "'guarantees 


NORT  SNIFFS  243 

satisfaction,'  'large  and  elegant  assortment,' 
'lowest  prices." 

"Well,"  said  Ed,  "what  would  you  have? 
They  pay  their  good  money  for  these  ads.  It 
shows  that  they're  satisfied." 

"No,"  said  Nort,  "it  only  shows  that  they 
don't  know  any  better." 

He  walked  quickly  down  the  room  and 
back  again,  all  our  eyes  upon  him. 

"I'll  tell  you  what!  Let's  publish  the 
picture  of  every  business  man  who  advertises 
with  us  right  in  the  middle  of  his  advertise 
ment,  and  then  invite  our  readers  to  watch 
for  the  'Hempfield  Gallery  of  Business  Suc 
cess." 

To  this  plan  Ed  had  a  thousand  objections, 
and  the  old  Captain,  much  as  he  liked  Nort, 
frowned  upon  it,  and  even  Fergus  scowled; 
but  Anthy  said: 

"Let's  see  what  can  be  done." 

So  Nort  confidently  sallied  forth,  and  went 
first  to  John  G.  Graham,  groceryman,  whose 
advertisements  had  been  a  feature  of  the  Star 
for  twenty  years,  and  who  always  renewed  his 
agreement  with  the  observation  that  he  s'posed 
he'd  have  to,  but  he  never  seen  the  good  it  was 
to  him.  He  was  a  large  man,  as  flaccid  as  a 


244  HEMPFIELD 

bag  of  meal,  with  a  rather  serious  countenance, 
hair  smoothly  roached  back,  and  a  big  gray 
moustache.  He  was  one  of  the  selectmen  of  the 
town,  and  secretly  not  a  little  vain  of  his  posi 
tion  and  of  his  success. 

'Your  store  is  one  of  the  best-smelling 
places  in  this  town,"  said  Nort.  "I  always 
stop  when  I  go  by  to  take  a  sniff  of  it.  I 
should  think  it  would  make  people  who  come 
in  here  want  to  buy." 

He  began  to  sniff,  turning  his  head  first 
this  way  and  then  that.  To  Mr.  Graham 
this  was  a  novel  and  interesting  suggestion, 
and  in  a  moment's  time  he  also  began  sniffing 
in  a  solemn  and  dignified  way. 

"It  does  smell  good,"  he  admitted.  "Never 
thought  of  it  before." 

This  was  the  opening  that  Nort  wanted. 
He  began  explaining,  with  an  air  of  repressed 
enthusiasm  which  conveyed  a  wonderful  con 
viction  of  the  importance  of  what  he  was  say 
ing,  the  new  plans  of  the  Star.  He  quite  took 
Mr.  Graham  into  his  confidence. 

"We're  now  going  to  get  the  business 
men  of  Hempfield  talked  about,  Mr.  Graham," 
said  Nort,  bringing  down  his  fist  upon  the  top 
of  a  cracker  box.  "We're  going  to  make 


NORT  SNIFFS  245 

people  trade  here  instead  of  sending  away  for 
their  groceries!" 

This  was  an  important  point  with  Mr. 
Graham.  If  there  was  one  thing  he  hated 
above  any  other  it  was  the  invasion  of  Hemp- 
field  by  the  mail-order  houses.  So  he  turned 
his  head  to  one  side,  frowning  a  little,  and 
listened  to  Nort. 

'Trouble  is,"  said  Nort,  "your  ad  isn't 
interesting.  Same  thing  you've  had  for  ten 
years,  and  people  have  got  so  used  to  seeing 
it  they  don't  read  it  any  more.  Now  those 
fellows  out  in  Chicago  are  succeeding  because 
they  know  how  to  advertise.  If  you  keep  up 
with  them,  you've  got  to  change  your  methods. 
Bring  your  advertising  up  to  date!  I  say, 
let's  make  the  people  read  what  the  business 
people  of  Hempfield  have  got  to  say  to  them." 

Mr.  Graham  frowned  still  more  deeply, 
wondering  what  all  this  meant  and  at  just 
what  point  Nort  would  ask  him  to  pay  some 
thing.  Mr.  Graham  was  cynically  sure  that 
it  would  all  boil  down  sooner  or  later  to  a 
question  of  money,  and  he  had  not  lived  an 
entire  lifetime  in  Hempfield  without  being 
equally  sure  that  no  one  would  get  a  dime  out 
of  him  without  earning  every  last  cent  of  it. 


246  HEMPFIELD 

Nort  tore  a  sheet  of  wrapping  paper  from 
the  roll  and  put  it  on  the  counter. 

"See  here  now:     This  is  how  I'd  do  it- 
just    for    a    suggestion."     And    he    began    to 
write  on  the  paper: 

Some   of  the    Good    Things    one    may    smell 

upon  stepping  into 

JOHN  G.  GRAHAM'S  STORE 

Delicious  Coffee  from  Brazil 

Molasses  from  New  Orleans 

Spices  from  Araby 

"  What's  Araby  ? "  asked  Mr.  Graham.  "  My 
spices  are  all  from  Boston." 

"Araby,"  said  Nort,  "is  where  they  grow 
'em." 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Graham. 

Cookies  from  Buffalo 
Fragrant  New  Cheese 

"What  else  is  it  that  smells?"  asked  Nort, 
lifting  up  his  nose  and  sniffing  discriminatively. 

Mr.  Graham  also  lifted  up  his  nose  and 
sniffed,  and  then,  looking  at  Nort,  solemnly 
remarked: 

"  Kerosene  and  codfish." 

"Wouldn't  make  the  list  too  long,  would 
you,  Mr.  Graham?" 


NORT  SNIFFS  247 

"S'pose  not,  s'pose  not,"  said  Mr.  Graham. 

When  you  come  into  our  Store 

SNIFF— Then    BUY. 
Our  prices  are  the  lowest 

"How's  that,  now?"  exclaimed  Nort,  step 
ping  back  and  observing  his  work  with  delight. 
'Try  that  experiment,  Mr.  Graham,  and  then 
watch  the  people  as  they  come  into  the  store. 
Just  watch  'em.  They  will  all  be  sniffing  like 
pointer  dogs!  You'll  know  then  that  they 
have  read  your  advertisement." 

A  smile  broke  gradually  over  Mr.  Graham's 
countenance.  Nort's  picture  touched  his  slow 
imagination,  and  he  could  actually  see  old 
Mrs.  Dexter  coming  in  with  her  basket, 
sniffing  like  a  pointer  dog.  Nort  had  given 
him  something  brand  new  in  a  humdrum  world 
—and  funny.  In  the  country  there  is  always 
such  a  consuming  and  ungratified  need  of 
something  to  laugh  at.  Any  one  who  can 
make  the  country  laugh  can  have  his  way 
with  it. 

Nort  saw  that  he  was  winning,  and  pursued 
his  advantage  closely.  He  explained  with 
perfect  assurance  his  plan  of  publishing  what 


248  HEMPFIELD 

he  called  the  "Hempfield  Gallery  of  Business 
Success,"  a  portrait  with  each  advertisement; 
and,  having  already  opened  Mr.  Graham's 
imagination  just  a  crack,  was  able  now  to 
enter  with  his  larger  plans.  Having  got  a 
tentative  promise  to  try  this  extraordinary 
innovation,  and  innovations  were  like  earth 
quakes  in  Hempfield,  Nort  rushed  over  to  see 
Mr.  Tole,  the  druggist,  and  using  Mr.  Gra 
ham  as  an  opening  wedge,  got  Mr.  Tole  to  the 
point  of  saying,  "  I'll  see."  Then  he  went  into 
Henderson's  drygoods  store  and,  using  the 
promises  of  both  Mr.  Graham  and  Mr.  Tole, 
worked  Mr.  Henderson  into  what  might  be 
called  a  state  of  reluctant  preparedness.  Every 
time  he  got  a  new  man  he  went  back  to  all 
the  others  with  the  news,  until  they  began  to 
think  themselves  a  part  of  the  conspiracy— 
and  Mr.  Graham  afterward  considered  him 
self  the  real  originator  of  this  daring  scheme 
for  the  uplift  of  Hempfield. 

From  the  way  Nort  worked  at  this  scheme, 
coming  back  after  each  assault  to  tell  us  with 
glee  of  his  experiences,  one  would  have  thought 
he  was  having  the  time  of  his  life,  as,  indeed, 
he  was.  It  was  still  a  great  joke  to  him;  and 
yet  I  saw  his  eyes  often  turn  toward  Anthy, 


NORT  SNIFFS  249 

eagerly  seeking  her  approval.  And  Anthy 
would  sit  very  quiet  in  her  chair,  looking  at 
Nort  with  level  eyes,  smiling  just  a  little, 
and  once  or  twice  after  he  had  turned  away, 
I  saw  that  she  still  kept  her  eyes  upon  him 
with  a  curious,  questioning,  wistful  look. 
Fergus  saw  it,  too,  always  watching  silently 
from  the  cases. 

Well,  we  launched  the  "Hempfield  Gal 
lery"  with  tremendous  effect.  Nort  had  not 
only  increased  the  number  of  advertisements 
but  had  actually  succeeded  in  getting  all  the 
advertisers  to  pay  for  making  the  cuts  of  them 
selves.  It  was  really  very  effective:  and  Ed, 
now  that  the  plan  was  launched,  was  able  to 
sell  many  extra  copies  of  the  paper.  As  for 
Nort,  that  irrepressible  young  rapscallion  was 
in  the  highest  of  spirits.  And  every  day  when 
he  came  down  the  street  he  would  look  in  at 
Mr.  Graham's  store: 

"Sniffin',  are  they,  Mr.  Graham?" 
'They  certainly  are  sniffin',"  that  ponder 
ous  groceryman  would  respond. 

Both  would  then  sniff  solemnly  in  unison, 
and  Nort  would  go  on  down  the  street  laugh 
ing.  A  new  joke  in  Hempfield !  I  do  not 
wonder  that  he  got  them. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
FERGUS'S  FAVOURITE  POEM 

I  RECALL  now  vividly  the  growing  excite 
ment  of  those  winter   days,   the   interest 
we    all   had.     Each    day   brought    something 
new,  some  surprised  comment  in  a  "contem 
porary,"  some  quotation  from  a  city  paper, 
some  curious  visitor  to  see  the  old  Captain, 
some  new  subscriber  or  advertiser,  some  ne 
cessity  for  adding  to  our  order  for  "insides." 
One  of  the  best  ways  to  attract  and  interest 
250 


FERGUS'S  FAVOURITE  POEM      251 

other  people  is  by  going  about  one's  own  busi 
ness  as  though  it  were  the  most  wonderful 
and  fascinating  thing  in  the  world.  People 
soon  begin  to  look  on  wistfully,  begin  to  won 
der  what  all  this  activity  and  triumphant 
joyousness  is  about,  and  are  presently  drawn 
to  it  as  bees  are  drawn  by  a  blooming  clover 
field.  So  the  printing-office  began  to  be  a 
place  of  importance  and  curiosity  in  Hemp- 
field.  The  news  spread  that  almost  any  sur 
prise  might  be  expected  in  the  Star. 

"It's  that  fellow  Carr  that's  doing  it," 
said  old  Mr.  Kenton,  voicing  the  hopeless 
philosophy  of  the  country  when  facing  com 
petition  with  the  city.  "One  o'  these  days, 
you'll  see,  he'll  get  a  better  job  in  Bosting,  and 
that'll  be  the  end  of  him." 

In  the  meantime,  however,  we  were  too 
busy  to  indulge  in  any  forebodings,  and  as 
for  Nort  the  whole  great  golden  world  of  real 
life  was  opening  to  him  for  the  first  time. 

No  sooner  had  the  interest  in  the  old  Cap 
tain's  autobiography  somewhat  subsided,  and 
the  advertising  scheme,  with  several  lesser 
matters,  been  disposed  of,  than  Nort's  fertile 
brain  began  to  devise  new  schemes. 

"Say,"  he  exclaimed  one  winter  day,  com- 


252  HEMPFIELD 

ing  in  from  one  of  his  expeditions  and  look 
ing  us  all  over  as  though  we  were  specimens 
of  a  curious  sort,  "this  office  is  a  pretty  inter 
esting  place." 

"Just  found  it  out?"  grunted  Fergus. 

"Well,"  said  Nort,  "I've  suspected  it  all 
along,  and  now  I  know  it.  There's  the 
Cap'n,  for  example.  We  didn't  know  we 
had  a  gold  mine  in  the  Cap'n,  now,  did  we? 
But  we  had!  Great  thing,  the  Cap'n's  story! 
Finest  thing  done  in  country  journalism  any 
where,  at  any  time,  I  suppose." 

I  exchanged  an  amused  glance  with  Anthy, 
and  we  both  looked  at  the  old  Captain.  As 
Nort  talked  the  Captain  grew  more  and  more 
erect  in  his  chair,  wagged  his  head,  and,  finally, 
arising  from  his  seat,  took  two  or  three  steps 
down  the  room  looking  very  grand.  Nort 
went  on  talking,  glancing  at  the  old  Captain 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  evidently 
enjoying  himself  hugely. 

"Now,  I  say,  we've  got  other  gold  mines 
here,  if  we  only  knew  how  to  work  'em. 
There's  David!  Let's  have  a  column  from 
him — wise  saws  and  modern  instances.  David 
will  become  the  official  Hempfield  philosopher. 
And  then  there's  Fergus— 


FERGUS'S  FAVOURITE  POEM       253 

"Humph!"  observed  Fergus. 

;' There's  Fergus.  Everybody  in  town  knows 
Fergus,  and  I'll  stake  my  reputation  that 
anything  that  Fergus  writes  over  his  own 
name  will  be  read." 

Nort  was  riding  his  highest  horse. 

"Miss  Doane,  let's  announce  it  in  big  type 
this  very  week,  something  like  this:  'The 
Star  of  Hempfield  has  arranged  a  new  treat 
for  its  readers.  We  shall  soon  present  a 
column  containing  the  ripe  observations  of 
our  esteemed  printer,  fellow  citizen,  and 
spotless  Scotchman,  Mr.  Fergus  MacGregor. 
We  shall  also  have  contributions  in  a  philo 
sophical  vein  by  Mr.  David  Grayson,  and  a 
column  by  that  paragon  of  country  journal 
ism'  '  —here  he  paused  and  looked  solemnly 
at  the  old  Captain,  and  then  resumed—  "that 
paragon  of  country  journalism,  Mr.  Norton 
Carr."' 

We  all  thought  that  Nort  was  joking,  but 
he  wasn't.  He  was  in  dead  earnest.  That 
afternoon  he  walked  home  with  me  down  the 
wintry  road.  It  was  a  cold,  blustery  day 
with  a  fine  snow  sifting  through  the  air,  but 
Nort's  head  was  so  hot  with  his  plans  that  I 
am  sure,  if  his  feet  were  chilled,  he  never  knew 


254  HEMPFIELD 

it.  He  laboured  hard  with  me  to  write  some 
thing  each  week  for  the  Star,  and  the  upshot 
of  the  matter  was  that  I  began  to  contribute 
short  paragraphs  and  bits  of  description  and 
narrative  which  we  headed 

DAVID  GRAYSON'S  COLUMN 

It  was  made  up  of  the  very  simplest  and  com 
monest  elements,  mostly  little  scraps  of  news 
from  my  farm — the  description  of  a  calf  drink 
ing,  the  sound  of  pigeons  in  the  hay  loft.  I 
told  also  about  the  various  country  odours  in 
spring,  peach  leaves,  strawberry  leaves,  and 
new  hay,  and  of  the  curious  music  of  the  rain 
in  the  corn.  I  inquired  what  was  the  finest 
hour  of  the  day  in  Hempfield,  and  tried  to 
answer  my  own  question.  I  put  in  a  hundred 
and  one  inconsequential  things  that  I  love  to 
observe  and  think  about,  and  added  here  and 
there,  for  seasoning,  a  bit  of  common  country 
philosophy.  It  was  very  enjoyable  to  do,  and 
a  number  of  people  said  they  liked  to  read  it, 
because  I  told  them  some  of  the  things  they 
often  thought  about,  but  had  never  been  able 
to  express. 

Nort  found  Fergus  far  harder  to  influence 


FERGUS'S  FAVOURITE  POEM      255 

than  he  found  me.  A  curious  change  had 
been  going  on  in  Fergus  which  I  did  not  at 
first  understand.  At  times  he  was  more  gar 
rulous  than  ever  I  had  known  him  to  be,  and 
at  times  he  was  a  very  sphinx  for  silence.  It 
is  a  curious  thing  how  people  surprise  us.  In 
our  vanity  we  begin  to  think  we  know  them 
to  the  uttermost,  and  then  one  day,  possibly 
by  accident,  possibly  in  a  moment  of  emo 
tion,  a  little  secret  door  springs  open  in  the 
smooth  panel  of  their  visible  lives,  and  we  see 
within  a  long,  long  corridor  with  other  doors  and 
passages  opening  away  from  it  in  every  direc 
tion — the  vast  secret  chambers  of  their  lives. 

I  had  some  such  experience  with  that 
prickly  Scotchman,  Fergus  MacGregor.  It  be 
gan  one  evening  when  I  found  him  alone  by 
the  office  fire.  He  was  sitting  smoking  his 
impossible  pipe  and  gazing  into  the  glowing 
open  draft  of  the  corpulent  stove.  He  did 
not  even  look  around  when  I  came  in,  but 
reaching  out  one  foot  kicked  a  chair  over 
toward  me.  Suddenly  he  fetched  a  big  sigh, 
and  said  in  a  tone  of  voice  I  had  not  before 
heard : 

"Night  is  the  mither  o'  thoughts." 

He  relapsed  into  silence  again.     After  some 


256  HEMPFIELD 

moments  he  took  his  pipe  out  and  remarked 
to  the  stove: 

"Oaks  fall  when  reeds  stand." 

"Fergus,"  I  said,  "you're  cryptic  to-night. 
What  do  you  consider  yourself,  an  oak  or  a 
reed?" 

"Well,  David,  I'm  the  oak  that  falls,  while 
the  reed  stands." 

I  tried  to  draw  him  out  still  further  on  this 
interesting  point,  but  not  another  explanatory 
word  would  he  say.  It  was  the  beginning, 
however,  of  a  new  understanding  of  Fergus. 

A  little  later,  that  very  evening,  Anthy  and 
her  uncle  came  in  for  a  moment  on  their  way 
home  from  some  call  or  entertainment,  and  not 
a  minute  behind  them,  Nort.  I  saw  Fergus's 
eyes  dwell  a  moment  on  Anthy  and  then  re 
turn  to  his  moody  observation  of  the  fire.  And 
Anthy  was  well  worth  a  second  glance  that 
evening.  The  sharp  winter  wind  had  touched 
her  cheeks  with  an  unaccustomed  radiance, 
and  had  blown  her  hair,  where  the  scarf  did 
not  quite  protect  it,  wavily  about  her  temples. 
She  was  in  great  spirits. 

"Fergus,"  she  cried  out,  "what  do  you 
mean  sitting  here  all  humped  up  over  the  fire 
on  a  wonderful  night  like  this!" 


FERGUS'S  FAVOURITE  POEM       257 

Here  Nort  broke  in: 

"Fergus  is  thinking  about  what  he  will  put 
into  his  issue  of  the  Star." 

'They're  all  my  issues,  so  far's  I  can  see/* 
growled  Fergus. 

"But  now,  Fergus,"  persisted  Nort,  "if 
you  were  editing  a  column  in  the  newspaper 
what  would  you  put  in  it?" 

Fergus  began  to  liven  up  a  little. 

'Tell  us,  Fergus,"  said  Anthy. 

Fergus  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth 
and  rubbed  the  bowl  of  it  along  his  cheek, 
screwing  up  his  face  as  though  he  were  think 
ing  hard.  We  all  watched  him.  No  one 
could  ever  tell  quite  where  Fergus  would 
break  out. 

"What  is  most  interesting  to  you?" 
prompted  Nort. 

'That's  easy,"  said  Fergus,  and  turning  in 
his  chair  he  reached  across  to  the  shelf  and 
produced  his  battered  volume  of  'Tom 
Sawyer."  This  he  opened  gravely  and  began 
to  read  the  passage  in  which  Tom  beguiles 
the  other  boys  in  the  village  to  do  his  white 
washing  for  him: 

"Tom  appeared  on  the  sidewalk  with  a  bucket  of 
whitewash  and  a  long-handled  brush.  He  surveyed  the 


258  HEMPFIELD 

fence,  and  all  gladness  left  him  and  a  deep  melancholy 
settled  down  upon  his  spirit.  Thirty  yards  of  board 
fence  nine  feet  high.  Life  seemed  to  him  hollow  and 
existence  but  a  burden. 

Fergus  read  it  with  a  deliciously  humor 
ous  Scotch  twist  in  the  words,  a  twist  impos 
sible  to  represent  in  print.  Occasionally  he 
would  pause  and  bark  two  or  three  times,  his 
excuse  for  laughter.  When  he  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  passage,  Nort  said: 

"I've  got  it!  This  is  the  very  thing:  let's 
put  it  in  the  Star.  Where's  a  pencil  and 
paper?  Fergus  MacGregor's  Favourite  Passage 
from  '  Tom  Sawyer.'  Everybody  in  town  knows 
that  Fergus  likes  'Tom  Sawyer." 

"Humph!"  said  Fergus,  but  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  not  a  little  pleased.  Do  what  he 
would,  he  could  not  help  liking  Nort. 

"I  know  something  that  represents  Fergus 
still  better,"  said  Anthy. 

Fergus  looked  across  at  her,  and  then  began 
thumbing  his  pipe. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Nort. 

'The  Twa  Dogs.'     Isn't  that  your  favour 
ite  poem,  Fergus?" 

"Whur'll  you  find  a  better  one?"  asked 
Fergus,  putting  his  pipe  back  in  his  mouth. 


FERGUS'S  FAVOURITE  POEM       259 

'That's  Number  Two,"  said  the  irrepres 
sible  Nort.  "We'll  put  that  in  some  other 
issue  headed  'Fergus  MacGregors  Favourite 
Poem! 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    CELEBRATION 

NOTHING,  finally,  continues  long  in  this 
world.  At  moments  of  high  happiness 
and  grand  endeavour  we  are  tempted  to  think 
that  the  world  is  solid  happiness  all  the  way 
through.  But  in  reality  the  interior  of  the 
planet  of  life  is  molten  and  the  crust  terribly 
thin :  we  never  know  at  what  moment  an  earth 
quake  may  rend  what  has  seemed  to  us  the  in 
destructible  foundations  of  our  existence. 

260 


THE  CELEBRATION  261 

The  Star  had  been  wonderfully  successful, 
and  Nort  had  been  going  from  glory  to  daz 
zling  glory,  having  everything  his  own  way, 
and  coming,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  think  himself 
something  of  an  exception  to  the  common  lot 
of  poor  human  nature.  He  was  in  the  first 
bloom  of  his  genius  (you  will  yet  hear  from 
Norton  Carr,  mark  my  word),  and  like  many 
another  ardent  young  man  he  thought  the 
world  was  made  for  him,  not  he  for  the  world. 
He  liked  people,  and  he  knew  that  people 
liked  him — and  presumed  upon  it.  And  more 
and  more  he  loved  to  toss  off  his  glittering  ideas 
and  his  wonderful  plans,  enjoying  the  be- 
dazzlement  which  they  aroused  and  ready  to 
laugh  at  those  who  were  too  easily  taken  in. 
At  first  he  was  willing  to  sit  down  and  work 
hard  to  bring  his  dreams  to  pass,  but  he  had 
never  been  trained  to  steady  effort,  and  unless 
he  was  forced  it  was  irksome  to  him.  He  liked 
to  explain  his  ideas  and  let  any  one  else  work 
them  out,  or  drop  them.  He  was  like  that 
vagabond  of  birds,  the  cuckoo,  always  laying 
eggs  in  the  nests  of  other  birds,  knowing  with 
a  sort  of  sardonic  humour  that  if  they  did 
hatch  the  young  birds  would  and  could  be 
nothing  but  cuckoos. 


262  HEMPFIELD 

As  spring  advanced  Nort  grew  still  more 
undependable.  It  seemed  to  get  into  his  very 
blood.  I  would  catch  him  looking  out  of  the 
open  window  of  our  office  into  the  mass  of 
lilac  leaves,  or  lifting  his  chin  to  take  in  a 
full  breath  of  the  good  outdoors,  and  when 
he  whistled,  and  he  was  often  whistling, 
the  low  monotonous  note  had  a  curious  lift 
and  stir  in  it.  He  was  frequently  moody, 
and  when  he  did  burst  out  it  was  almost 
never  to  Anthy.  He  seemed  actually  to  avoid 
Anthy,  and  yet  without  any  set  purpose  of 
doing  so.  And  of  all  of  us  he  liked  best  to 
talk  with  Fergus,  who  treated  him  very  much 
as  a  she-bear  treats  her  cub,  with  evidences 
of  burly  affection  which  usually  left  claw 
marks. 

I  could  see  that  all  this  was  getting  to  be 
very  distressing  to  Anthy.  Perhaps  she  felt 
that  the  pace  the  Star  was  setting  was  far  too 
great  to  keep ;  perhaps  she  felt  that  too  much 
rested  upon  the  uncertain  quantity  which  was 
Nort — and  perhaps,  down  deep,  she  had  be 
gun  to  have  a  more  than  ordinary  interest  in 
Nort.  She  was  not  one  of  those  women  who 
are  quickly  awakened,  and  she  was  absorbed  in 
her  enterprise,  and,  besides,  to  all  outward  ap- 


THE  CELEBRATION  263 

pearances,  Nort  was  a  mere  tramp  printer  and 
her  own  employee. 

One  bright  forenoon  in  April,  one  of  those 
utterly  perfect  spring  days  in  which  April 
appears  in  the  coquettish  garb  of  June,  I  saw 
Nort  suddenly  start  up  from  his  work,  seize 
his  coat,  and  shoot  out  of  the  door.  In  the 
afternoon,  as  I  was  going  homeward  along 
the  lanes  and  across  the  fields,  I  came  upon 
him  in  a  grove  of  young  maple  trees.  He  was 
lying  flat  on  his  back  in  the  leaves,  all  flecked 
with  sunshine,  his  arms  opened  wide,  one  leg 
lifted  high  over  the  other.  He  was  looking 
up  into  the  green  wonder  of  the  vegetation. 
Such  a  look  of  sheer  pagan  joy  of  life  I  have 
rarely  seen  on  a  human  face.  When  he  saw 
me  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

" Isn't  it  wonderful— all  of  it?"  he  said. 
"Why,  David,  I  could  write  poetry,  if  I  knew 
how!" 

"Or  paint  pictures — or  carve  statues,  or 
compose  music,"  I  put  in. 

"Anything  is  possible  on  a  day  like  this!" 
"Except  printing  a  country  newspaper." 
He  laughed  ruefully,  threw  back  his  head 
impatiently    and    utterly    refused    to   discuss 
that  subject. 


264  HEMPFIELD 

I  took  the  rascal  home  with  me,  to  Harriet's 
delight,  and  he  followed  me  around  after 
ward,  while  I  did  my  chores. 

The  next  morning,  just  as  he  was  starting 
for  town,  he  began  telling  Harriet  how  much 
he  had  enjoyed  coming  to  see  us — so  many 
times  during  the  past  months. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  "there  was  some  way 
of  showing  you  and  David  how  much  I  ap 
preciate  it." 

Here  he  stopped  abruptly  and  his  eyes  began 
to  glow. 

"I  have  it.  A  great  idea!  You're  in  it, 
Miss  Grayson!" 

Harriet  stood  watching  his  slight  active 
figure  until  it  quite  disappeared  beyond  the 
hill.  Then  she  came  in,  looking  absent- 
minded,  a  very  rare  expression  for  her,  and  I 
even  thought  I  heard  her  sigh  softly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Harriet?" 

'That  boy!  That  perfectly  irresponsible 
boy!  He  needs  some  one  to  look  after  him." 

Nort's  idea  was  not  long  in  bearing  fruit. 
Harriet  found  the  letter  in  the  mail  box  ad 
dressed  to  both  of  us  in  Nort's  handwriting. 
She  brought  it  in,  tearing  it  open  curiously. 

"  I  can't  conceive — addressed  to  both  of  us." 


THE  CELEBRATION  265 

She  finally  opened  it  and  produced  a  card 
neatly  printed  with  these  words: 

Fergus  MacGregor 

and 

Norton  Carr 

request  the  pleasure  of 

your  company  at  dinner 

Friday  evening,  April  twenty -third, 

at  the  office  of 
The  Hempfield  Star 

to  meet 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Old  Harry 

R.  S.  V.  P. 

"What  in  the  world!"  exclaimed  Harriet. 

It  was  as  much  of  a  surprise  to  Anthy 
and  the  old  Captain  as  it  was  to  us.  As  for 
Ed  Smith,  he  had  so  far  lost  his  breath  trying 
to  keep  up  with  Nort  that  he  no  longer  had 
the  capacity  for  being  surprised  at  anything. 

I  cannot  attempt  an  adequate  description 
of  that  evening's  celebration.  Though  we 
did  not  know  it  at  the  time  it  brought  us  to 
the  very  climax  and  crisis  of  that  period  of  our 
lives.  It  was  the  glorious  end  of  an  epoch  in 
the  history  of  the  Star  of  Hempfield. 

Nort  and  Fergus  had  cleaned  out  the  back 


266  HEMPFIELD 

room  of  the  shop,  and  a  table  was  set  up  in  the 
middle  of  it  with  just  chairs  enough  for  our 
own  company,  including  one  stool  upon  which 
Tom,  the  cat,  was  intermittently  induced  to 
sit  by  Nort.  Dick's  cage  was  hung  from  the 
ceiling  over  the  table,  where  for  a  time  he 
seemed  quite  alive  to  the  importance  of  the 
occasion,  but  soon  went  off  to  sleep  on  his  perch 
with  his  head  drawn  down  among  his  yellow 
feathers. 

The  meal  itself  came  mostly  by  the  hands  of 
Joe  Miller,  coloured,  of  the  Hempfield  House, 
who  smiled  broadly  during  the  entire  evening, 
but  the  piece  de  resistance,  the  crowning  glory 
of  the  evening,  was  an  enormous  steak  which 
Nort  and  Fergus,  with  much  discussion  and 
more  perspiration,  and  not  a  few  smudges  and 
scratches,  broiled  over  the  coals  in  our  office 
stove.  I  may  say  that  in  the  effort  to  produce 
these  coals  the  office  was  heated  all  the  after 
noon  to  such  a  temperature  that  it  drove  us  all 
out.  I  shall  not  forget  the  sight  of  Nort  com 
ing  in  at  the  door  carrying  the  triumphant 
steak,  still  in  the  broiler,  with  Fergus  crouch 
ing  and  dodging  along  beside  him,  holding  a 
part  of  an  old  press  fly  under  it  to  catch  any 
drippings.  I  remember  the  look  on  his  glow- 


THE  CELEBRATION  267 

ing  face  and  the  smile  he  wore!  He  let  the 
steak  slide  out  of  the  broiler,  to  Harriet's 
horror,  upon  the  huge  hotel  platter. 

'There!"  he  exclaimed. 

We  all  cheered  wildly,  and  Joe  Miller, 
with  a  carving  knife  in  one  hand  and  a  fork 
in  the  other,  hovered  behind,  his  black  face 
one  great  smile. 

Fergus  was  quite  wonderfully  dressed  up 
for  the  occasion  with  a  very  tall  collar  and 
a  red  necktie,  and  cuffs  that  positively  would 
not  stay  up,  and  his  attempt  to  brush  his  hair 
had  produced  the  most  astounding  storm 
effects.  But  he  appeared  happy,  if  uncomfort 
able.  As  for  Harriet,  I  have  not  seen  her 
look  so  young  and  pretty  for  years.  It  was 
altogether  a  little  irregular  and  shocking  to 
her,  but  she  met  it  with  a  sort  of  fearful  joy. 

The  old  Captain  was  perfect.  He  was  dressed 
in  his  very  best  clothes — his  longest-tailed 
coat — and  wore  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole, 
and  he  told  us  the  most  surprising  stories  of 
his  early  life.  He  was  also  a  very  pattern  of 
gallantry,  and  in  several  passages  with  Har 
riet  decidedly  got  the  worst  of  it. 

How  I  love  such  moments —as  perfect  as 
anything  in  this  life  of  ours;  friends  all  about, 


268 


HEMPFIELD 


<]*$$£ 

^--i  _*_>-N  *  i. 


CJ 

12 

o 

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THE  CELEBRATION  269 

and  good  comradeship,  and  jolly  stories,  and 
lively  talk,  and  good  things  to  eat.  And 
surely  never  was  there  a  finer  evening  for 
just  such  a  celebration.  The  cool  spring  air 
coming  in  across  the  lilacs  and  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  them,  the  shaded  lamp,  the  oc 
casional  friendly  sounds  from  the  street,  and 
finally,  and  to  the  amazement  of  us  all,  the 
town  clock  striking  twelve.  What  a  beautiful 
and  wonderful  thing  life  is! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

STARLIGHT 

I  SCARCELY   know   how   he   managed    it 
—how    does    youth    manage    such    things 
—but     almost     before    I     knew    what     was 
going  on,  and  while  the  Captain  and  I  were 
still   in   the   tail-end   of   a    discussion    of  the 
administration    of    William    McKinley,    and 
Harriet  was  putting  on  her  wraps,  Nort  had 
gone  out  of  the  office  with  Anthy.     We  heard 
Nort    laugh    as    they   were   going   down   the 
steps. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  old  Captain,  "let 
'em  go." 

A  few  minutes  later  Fergus  disappeared 
by  way  of  the  back  door  which  led  irom 
his  room  into  the  yard.  I  did  not  at 

270 


STARLIGHT  271 

the  time  connect  the  two  departures,  did 
not,  indeed,  think  of  the  matter  at  all,  save 
to  wonder  vaguely  why  the  dependable 
Fergus  should  be  leaving  his  home,  which 
was  the  printing-office,  at  that  time  of  the 
night. 

It  was  a  wonderful  night,  starlit  and  very 
clear,  with  the  cool,  fresh  air  full  of  the  sweet 
prescience  of  spring.  It  was  still,  too,  in  the 
town,  and  once  a  little  outside  the  fields  and 
hills  and  groves  took  upon  themselves  a 
haunting  mystery  and  beauty. 

So  often  and  wistfully  has  my  memory  dwelt 
upon  the  incidents  of  that  night  that  I  seem 
now  to  live  more  vividly  in  the  lives  of  Nort 
and  Anthy — with  Fergus  crouching  in  the 
meadows  behind  —than  I  do  in  my  own  barren 
thoughts. 

Exaltation  of  mood  affected  Nort  and 
Anthy  quite  differently.  It  set  Nort  off, 
made  him  restless,  eager,  talkative,  but  it 
made  Anthy  the  more  silent.  It  glowed 
from  her  eyes  and  expressed  itself  in  the  odd 
tense  little  gesture  she  had — of  one  hand 
lifted  to  her  breast. 

"Most  wonderful  time  that  ever  I  had  in 
my  life,"  said  Nort. 


272  HEMPFIELD 

"It  was  fine,"  returned  Anthy.  Her  low 
voice  vibrated. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Miss  Doane,  that  it  is 
only  since  I  came  to  Hempfield  that  I  have 
begun  to  live.  I  was  only  existing  before: 
it  seems  to  me  now  as  though  I  could  do  any 
thing." 

He  paused.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was 
in  a  deeper  tone,  and  his  voice  shook: 

"I  feel  to-night  as  though  I  could  be  great 
—and  good." 

She  had  never  heard  that  tone  before:  she 
saw  him  in  a  new  light,  and  suddenly  began 
to  tremble  without  knowing  why.  But  she 
walked  quietly  at  his  side  along  the  shadowy 
road.  They  seemed  in  a  world  all  by  them 
selves,  with  the  wonderful  stars  above,  and 
the  fragrant  night  air  all  about  them.  At  the 
corner  where  the  sidewalk  ends  they  came 
to  the  first  outlook  upon  the  open  country. 
Anthy  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  around  her. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  beautiful,"  she  whispered. 

This  time  it  was  Nort  who  made  no  reply. 
They  stood  a  moment  side  by  side,  and  it  was 
thus  that  Fergus,  a  hundred  paces  behind  in 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  first  saw  them — with 
misery  in  his  soul. 


STARLIGHT  273 

They  walked  on  slowly  again,  feeling  each 
other's  presence  with  such  poignant  conscious 
ness  that  neither  dared  speak.  Thus  they 
came  to  Anthy's  gate:  and  there  they  paused 
a  moment. 

"Good-night,"  said  Nort. 

"Good-night,"  responded  Anthy  faintly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  the  starlight  on 
her  face.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  her 
for  the  first  time.  He  had  never  really  known 
her  before.  He  was  dizzily  conscious  of 
flashing  lights  and  something  in  his  throat 
that  hurt  him. 

"Anthy,"  he  said  huskily,  "you  are  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world." 

She  still  stood,  close  to  him,  looking  up  into 
his  face.  She  tried  to  move,  but  could 
not. 

"Anthy,"  he  said  again,  with  shaking 
voice,  and  stooping  over  kissed  her  upon  her 
lips. 

She  uttered  a  little  low  cry  and,  turning 
quickly,  with  her  hand  lifted  to  her  face,  ran 
up  the  walk  to  the  house. 

"Anthy,"  he  called  after  her — such  a  call 
as  she  will  not  forget  to  her  dying  day. 

And  she  was  gone. 


274  HEMPFIELD 

Nort  stood  by  the  gate,  clasping  the  wood 
until  his  fingers  hurt  him,  in  a  wild  tumult 
of  emotion.  And  behind  him  in  the  shadows, 
not  a  hundred  paces  away,  Fergus,  with 
clenched  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

FERGUS    AND    NORT 

FERGUS  MacGregor  was  approaching  the 
supreme  moment  of  his  life.  As  I  have 
said  before,  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  be 
gan  to  understand  that  roseate  Scotchman. 
His  husk  was  so  thick  and  prickly  that  one  ap 
proached  him  at  his  peril.  I  knew  that  he 
was  as  hard  as  nails  and  as  real  as  boiled  cab 
bage;  I  knew,  also,  that  just  within  his  rough 
exterior  there  were  unusual  qualities  of  strength 
and  warmth,  and  I  had  grown  strangely  to 
like  him  and  trust  him;  but  there  were  reaches 

275 


276  HEMPFIELD 

and  depths  in  his  character  that  I  was  long  in 
discovering. 

I  remember  his  telling  me  with  some  pride 
that  he  was  a  skeptic  in  religion,  "an  infidel 
if  ye  like,"  and  that  the  "Address  to  the  Unco 
Guid,"  about  expressed  his  views.  He  could 
also  repeat  "Holy  Willie's  Prayer"  to  per 
fection.  But  I  soon  found  that  he  was  an 
infidel  in  much  the  same  terms  that  his  fore 
fathers  had  been  Covenanters — a  terribly 
orthodox  infidel,  if  that  can  be  imagined. 
Skepticism  meant  no  mushy  liberalism  with 
him;  it  only  meant  that  he  had  adopted  a  new 
creed,  and  that  he  would  fight  as  hard  for  his 
skepticism  as  other  men  fight  for  their  more 
positive  beliefs.  But  if  he  had  changed  his 
religious  views,  the  moral  standards  which  lay 
beneath  them  like  the  primordial  rocks  had 
not  been  in  the  least  shaken. 

There  remained  something  deep  within  him 
of  the  old  spirit  of  clan  loyalty.  Anthy's 
father  had  almost  brought  him  up;  he  had  been 
in  the  office  of  the  Star  for  more  years  than  he 
cared  to  remember;  he  had  watched  Anthy 
through  her  unconscious  and  dreamy  girlhood; 
had  seen  her  blossom  into  youth  and  come  to 
the  full  glory  of  womanhood.  I  never  found 


FERGUS  AND  NORT  277 

out  how  old  he  was,  for  he  was  one  of  those 
hard-knit,  red-favoured  men  who  live  some 
times  from  the  age  of  twenty-five  to  fifty  with 
scarcely  more  evidences  of  change  than  a  gran 
ite  boulder.  He  thought  himself  ugly,  and 
he  was,  indeed,  rough,  uncouth,  and  unedu 
cated  in  the  schools,  though  in  many  ways  as 
thoroughly  educated  a  man,  if  education 
means  the  ability  to  command  instantly  and 
for  any  purpose  the  full  powers  of  one's  mind 
and  body,  as  one  often  finds. 

I  do  not  know  to  this  day  whether  Fergus 
loved  Anthy  in  the  sense  in  which  a  man  loves 
a  woman.  Certainly  it  was  no  selfish  love, 
but  rather  a  great  passionate  fidelity  to  one 
who,  he  thought,  was  infinitely  above  him,  the 
sort  of  devotion  which  asks  only  to  serve,  and 
expects  no  reward.  There  are  few  such  peo 
ple  in  this  world,  and  they  usually  get  what 
they  expect. 

I  saw  afterward,  as  I  did  not  see  so  clearly 
at  the  time,  how  faithfully,  jealously,  com 
pletely,  Fergus  had  served  and  watched  over 
Anthy,  particularly  since  the  death  of  her 
father.  He  lived  in  the  poor  back  room  of 
the  printing-office,  worked  hard  at  absurdly 
low  wages,  had  few  pleasures  in  life  beyond  his 


278  HEMPFIELD 

pipe  and  his  beloved  books — and  watched  over 
Anthy.  He  had  seen,  far  more  clearly  than 
Anthy  and  Nort  themselves  had  seen  it,  the 
growing  attachment  between  them,  had  seen 
it  with  what  misery  of  soul  I  can  only  guess. 

He  had  begun  by  liking  Nort  in  his  rough 
way,  partly  because  Nort  had  come  friendless 
to  our  office  and  needed  a  friend,  and  partly 
because  he  could  not  resist  Nort;  and  his 
knowledge  of  the  true  drift  of  affairs  had  not 
led  him  to  hate  Nort.  But  he  saw  with  the 
clear  eyes  of  perfect  devotion  just  what  Nort 
was — undisciplined,  erratic,  uncontrolled.  He 
had  himself  felt  Nort's  irresistible  charm  and 
he  dreaded  the  effect  of  it  upon  Anthy.  Nort 
was  likely  to  tire  of  Hempfield  at  any  time,  he 
might  even  tire  of  Anthy,  having  won  her,  and 
break  her  heart.  Moreover,  in  Fergus's  eyes, 
not  Sir  Galahad  himself  would  have  been  good 
enough  for  Anthy. 

It  was  not  because  Nort  appeared  penniless, 
not  because  he  was  a  tramp  printer,  that 
Fergus  began  to  set  so  indomitably  against 
him,  but  because  he  was  not  a  man.  Fergus 
had  that  terrible  sense  of  justice,  duty,  loyalty, 
that  would  have  caused  him  to  sacrifice  his 
greatest  friend  to  serve  Anthy  as  quickly  and 


FERGUS  AND  NORT  279 

completely  as  he  would  have  sacrificed  him 
self. 

Quite  unknown  to  me,  Fergus  had  been 
watching  the  situation  for  some  time,  and  it 
was  his  anxiety  which  had  caused  his  change- 
ableness  of  mood.  He  was  not  a  quick 
thinker,  and,  like  many  men  of  strong  char 
acter,  moved  to  his  resolutions  with  geologic 
slowness — and  geologic  irresistibility.  For  a 
long  time  he  debated  in  his  own  mind  what  he 
should  do.  He  finally  concluded  to  take  the 
whole  matter  into  his  own  hands.  He  would 
deal  directly  with  Nort. 

It  was  worse  than  he  had  expected.  He 
had  seen  the  episode  in  the  starlight  at  the 
gate — it  burned  itself  into  his  very  soul — and 
he  had  seen  Anthy  running  toward  the  house 
with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  To  a 
certain  extent  he  misconstrued  this  incident. 
He  could  not  see  what  happened  afterward: 
he  could  not  see  Anthy  running  up  the  dark 
stairway  in  her  home,  could  not  see  her  turn 
on  the  full  light  in  her  room  and  look  into  the 
mirror  at  her  own  glowing  face,  her  own  bril 
liant  eyes.  She  had  never  before  even  seen 
herself!  And  Nort's  words,  the  very  tone 
and  thrill  of  them — "You  are  the  most  beau- 


28o  HEMPFIELD 

tiful  woman  in  the  world  "  —singing  themselves 
wildly  within  her,  were  changing  the  world  for 
her.  Through  all  the  future  years,  she  did 
not  know  it  then,  she  was  to  see  herself  as 
some  other  person,  the  person  who  had  sprung 
into  glorious  being  when  Nort  had  called  her 
Anthy.  She  looked  only  once  at  her  face — she 
could  not  bear  more  of  it — and  then  threw 
herself  on  her  bed,  burying  her  burning  cheeks 
in  her  pillow,  and  lay  thus  for  a  long,  long 
time. 

All  of  this  Fergus  could  not  know  about, 
and  it  is  possible  that  if  he  had  known  about 
it  he  would  still  have  misinterpreted  it.  Like 
many  an  excellent  older  person  he  suspected 
that  youth  was  not  sufficient  to  its  own  prob 
lems. 

Nort  never  knew,  while  he  stood  there  at 
the  gate  looking  up  at  the  dark  house  into 
which  Anthy  had  disappeared,  how  near  he 
was  to  feeling  Fergus's  wiry  hands  upon  his 
throat.  But  Fergus  held  himself  in,  his  grim 
mind  made  up,  considering  how  best  he  should 
do  what  he  had  to  do. 

I  suppose  life  is  tragic,  or  comic,  or  merely 
humdrum,  as  you  happen  to  look  at  it.  If 
you  are  old  and  sour,  you  will  see  little  in  the 


FERGUS  AND  NORT  281 

rages  of  youth,  they  will  appear  to  you  exces 
sively  absurd  and  enormously  distant.  You 
will  probably  not  recall  that  you  yourself, 
in  your  time,  were  a  moderately  great  fool,  or, 
if  you  were  not  a  fool,  you  have  missed — 
What  have  you  not  missed  ? 

Nort  could  never  remember  exactly  what 
he  did  next.  He  recalls  rushing  through  shad 
owy  roads,  with  the  cool,  sharp  air  of  the  night 
biting  his  hot  face.  He  remembers  standing 
somewhere  on  a  hilltop  and  looking  up  at  the 
wonderful  blue  bowl  of  the  sky  all  lit  with 
stars.  He  could  remember  talking  aloud, 
but  not  what  it  was  that  he  said,  only  that 
it  came  out  of  the  vast  tumult  within  him. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  see  with  incom 
parable  vividness  Anthy's  face  looking  up  at 
him,  he  would  hear,  actually  hear,  his  own 
thick  voice  speaking;  every  minute  detail 
of  the  moment,  every  sight,  sound,  odour, 
would  pass  before  him  in  flashes  of  conscious 
ness.  He  would  live  over  the  entire  evening, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  in  a  moment  of  time.  He 
did  not  know  that  the  world  could  be  so 
beautiful;  he  did  not  imagine  that  he  himself 
was  like  that! 

At   its   height   emotion    seems   endless   and 


282  HEMPFIELD 

indestructible,  but  it  is,  in  its  very  nature, 
brief  and  elusive — else  men  might  die  of 
it.  Nort's  mood  began  finally  to  quiet  down, 
the  impressions  and  memories  of  the  night 
rushed  less  wildly  through  his  mind.  And 
suddenly — he  said  it  came  to  him  with  a 
shock — he  thought  of  the  future.  He  stopped 
still  in  the  road.  He  had  been  so  intoxicated 
with  the  experiences  he  had  just  passed  through 
that  it  had  actually  never  occurred  to  him 
what  they  might  mean;  and  according  to 
Nort's  temperament  the  new  vision  instantly 
swallowed  up  the  old,  and,  as  it  was  cooler 
and  clearer,  seemed  even  more  wonderful. 
He  remembered  saying  very  deliberately  and 
aloud: 

"I  must  work  for  Anthy  all  my  life." 
It  came  to  him  as  a  very  wonderful  thing 
that  he  could  do  this!  Why,  he  could  do  any 
thing  for  her:  he  could  slave  and  dig  and  die! 
He  could  be  great  for  her — and  let  no  one  else 
know  how  great  he  was!  He  could  win  a 
battle,  he  could  command  men,  he  could  write 
the  greatest  book  in  the  world,  and  no  one 
should  know  it  but  Anthy!  Oh,  youth, 
youth! 

His    mind    again    became    inordinately   ac- 


FERGUS  AND  NORT  283 

tive:  the  whole  wonderful  future  opened 
before  him.  He  began  to  plan  a  thousand 
things  that  he  might  do.  He  would  imagine 
himself  walking  home  with  Anthy,  just  as 
he  had  done  that  night,  thrilling  with  the 
thought  of  her  at  his  side,  and  he  would  be 
telling  her  his  plans,  and  always  she  would 
be  looking  up  into  his  face  just  as  she  had  been 
doing  at  that  last  moment! 

All  these  things  seem  long  in  the  telling 
—and  they  lasted  for  ages  in  Nort's  soul— 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  were  brief  enough 
in  time.  Fergus,  stumbling  along  behind  in 
the  cold  road,  his  hard-set  spirit  suffering 
dumbly,  was  only  waiting  the  choice  of  a 
moment  to  lay  his  hand  upon  Nort's  shoulder. 
And  thus  the  two  of  them  came,  by  no  fore 
thought,  to  the  little  hill  just  north  of  my 
farm,  and  I  entered  for  a  moment,  all  uncon 
sciously,  upon  the  comedy,  or  the  tragedy,  of 
that  historic  night. 

I  can't  tell  exactly  what  time  it  was,  but 
I  had  been  asleep  for  some  time  when  I  heard 
knocking  on  the  outer  door.  As  I  started 
up  in  bed  I  heard  some  one  calling  my  name, 
"David!  David!"  1  ran  downstairs  quickly, 
wondering  why  Harriet  was  not  before  me, 


284  HEMPFIELD 

for  she  is  a  light  sleeper.  As  I  opened  the 
door  I  saw  a  man  on  the  porch. 

"David!" 

"Nort!  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this 
time  of  the  night?" 

"Let  me  come  in!"  he  said  in  a  tense  voice. 
"I've  got  something  I  must  tell  you." 

I  got  him  into  my  study  and  shut  the  door 
so  that  Harriet  would  not  be  disturbed.  Then 
I  struck  a  light  and  looked  at  Nort.  His 
face  was  uncommonly  pale;  but  his  eyes, 
usually  blue  and  smiling,  were  black  with 
excitement.  I  could  not  fathom  it  at  all.  I 
had  seen  him  before  in  a  mood  of  exaltation, 
but  nothing  like  this. 

"David,"  said  he,  "I'm  going  to  write  a 
novel — a  great  novel." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me  with  tremen 
dous  seriousness.  The  whole  thing  struck  me 
all  at  once,  partly  in  revulsion  from  the  alarm 
I  had  felt  when  he  first  came  in,  as  being  the 
most  absurd  and  humorous  proceeding  I  had 
ever  known.  I  laughed  outright. 

"Is  this  what  you  came  to  tell  me  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning?" 

But  Nort's  mood  was  beyond  ridicule. 
He  did  not  seem  to  notice  my  laughter  at 


FERGUS  AND  NORT  285 

all,  but  plunged  at  once  into  an  account,  a 
more  or  less  jumbled  account  I  am  forced 
to  admit,  of  all  the  things  he  would  put  into 
his  novel.  As  nearly  as  I  could  make  out  he 
proposed  to  leave  nothing  out,  nothing  what 
ever  that  was  in  any  way  related  to  American 
life — politics,  religion,  business,  love,  art,  city 
life,  country  life — everything.  He  didn't  seem 
to  be  quite  sure  yet  whether  he  could  get  it 
all  into  one  large  volume,  like  one  of  Scott's 
novels,  or  whether  he  would  make  a  trilogy 
of  volumes,  like  Frank  Norris,  or  a  whole 
comedie  humaine  after  the  manner  of  Balzac. 
I  gathered  that  it  was  not  only  to  be  the  great 
American  novel,  but  the  greatest  that  would 
ever  be  written. 

It  was  so  preposterous,  so  extraordinary! 
But  it  was  Nort.  I  can  see  him  now,  vividly, 
pacing  uj)  and  down  the  room,  head  thrown 
back,  hair  flying  wild,  telling  me  of  his  visions. 
I  slipped  into  my  overcoat,  for  it  was  cold,  and 
still  he  talked  on,  and  at  moments  I  actually 
thought  the  rascal  had  lost  control  of  himself. 
This  impression  was  increased  by  a  startling 
incident  which  was  wholly  unexplainable  to 
me  at  the  time.  Just  as  Nort  was  walking 
down  the  study  toward  the  east  window  he 


286  HEMPFIELD 

stopped  suddenly,  looked  around  at  me,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice: 

"David,  I  saw  a  face  looking  in  at  that 
window." 

I  followed  his  glance  quickly,  but  could 
see  nothing. 

:' You're  dreaming,  Nort,"  said  I. 

"No,  I  saw  it." 

"See  here,  Nort,"  I  said,  "this  is  not  rea 
sonable.  I  want  you  to  stop  talking  and  go  to 
bed.  Can't  you  see  how  foolish  it  is?" 

For  the  first  time  Nort  laughed  his  old 
laugh. 

"I  suppose,  David,  it  is — but  it  seems  to 
me  I  never  lived  before  to-night." 

He  seemed  on  the  point  of  telling  me  some 
thing  more.  I  wish  he  had,  though  it  prob 
ably  would  not  have  changed  the  course  of 
events  which  followed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'll  go  home  and  be 
decent.  I  never  thought  until  this  moment 
what  you  must  think  of  me  for  routing  you 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  night!  And  Harriet, 
too!  What  will  she  say?" 

He  looked  at  me  ruefully,  whimsically. 
It  was  just  as  he  had  said:  he  had  never 
thought  of  it. 


FERGUS  AND  NORT  287 

"David,  I'm  awfully  sorry  and  ashamed 
of  myself.  I'm  a  selfish  devil." 

What  a  boy  he  was:  and  how  could  any  one 
hold  a  grudge  against  him!  He  was  now  all 
contrition,  feared  he'd  wake  up  Harriet,  and 
promised  to  creep  out  without  making  a 
sound.  I  asked  him  to  stay  with  us,  but  he 
insisted  that  he  couldn't,  that  he  must  get 
home.  So  he  opened  the  door  of  the  study, 
and  tiptoed  with  exaggerated  caution  down 
the  hall.  At  the  door  he  paused  and  said  in  a 
whisper: 

"David,  there  was  some  one  at  that  win 
dow." 

"Nonsense." 

"Well,  good-night." 

"Good-night,  Nort,  and  God  bless  you." 

He  closed  the  door  with  infinite  caution, 
and  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  last  of  him,  but 
a  moment  later  he  stuck  his  head  in  again. 

"David,"  he  said  in  a  stage  whisper,  "the 
great  trouble  is,  I  can't  think  of  any  heroine, 
any  really  great  heroine,  for  my  novel  that 
isn't  exactly  like  Anthy— 

'Nort,  get  out!"  I  laughed,  not  catching 
the  significance  of  his  remark  until  after  he 
had  gone. 


288  HEMPFIELD 

"Well,  good-night,  anyhow,  David,"  he 
said,  "or  good-morning.  You're  a  down 
right  good  fellow,  David." 

And  good  morning  it  was:  for  when  Nort 
went  down  the  steps  the  dawn  was  already 
breaking.  As  I  went  upstairs  I  heard  Har 
riet,  in  a  frightened  whisper: 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter,  David?" 

But  I  refused  to  explain,  at  least  until 
morning. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    BATTLE 

IT  WAS  gray  dawn,  with  a  reddening  sky 
in  the  east,  when  Nort  walked  up  the 
town  road.  The  fire  within  him  had  some 
what  died  down,  and  he  began  to  feel  tired 
and,  yes,  hungry.  At  the  brook  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill  he  stopped  and  threw  himself  down 
on  the  stones  to  drink,  and  as  he  lifted  his 
head  he  looked  at  himself  curiously  in  the 
pool.  The  robins  were  beginning  to  sing,  and 
all  the  world  was  very  still  and  beautiful. 

When  he  got  up  Fergus  touched  him  on  his 
shoulder.   He  was  startled,  and  glanced  around 

289 


29o  HEMPFIELD 

suddenly,  and  the  two  men  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  And 
Nort  knew  as  well  as  though  some  one  had 
told  him,  that  it  had  come  to  an  unescapable 
issue  between  him  and  this  grim  Scotch 
man. 

"Well,  Fergus,  where  did  you  drop  from?" 

He  tried  to  carry  it  off  jauntily:  he  had  al 
ways  played  with  Fergus. 

"I've  been  waitin'"  fer  ye,"  said  Fergus.  "I 
want  ye  to  come  in  the  wood  wi'  me.  I  have 
a  bone  to  pick  wi'  ye." 

Fergus  seemed  perfectly  cool;  whatever 
agitation  he  felt  showed  itself  only  in  the  in 
creasing  Scotchiness  of  his  speech. 

Nort  objected  faintly,  but  was  borne  along 
by  a  will  stronger  than  his  own.  They  stepped 
into  the  woods  and  walked  silently  side  by 
side  until  they  came  to  an  opening  near  the 
edge  of  a  field.  Here  there  were  beech  trees 
with  spaces  around  them,  and  the  ground  was 
softly  clad  in  new  green  bracken  and  carpeted 
with  leaves.  Nort  felt  a  kind  of  cold  horror 
which  he  could  not  understand. 

"  Fergus,"  he  said,  again  trying  to  speak 
lightly,  "it  was  you  I  saw  looking  in  at  Da 
vid's  window, " 


THE  BATTLE  291 

"It  was,"  said  Fergus.  "I  couldna  let  ye 
escape  me." 

They  had  now  paused,  and  in  spite  of  him 
self  Nort  was  facing  Fergus. 

"We  must  ha'  it  oot  between  us,  Nort," 
said  Fergus. 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  don't  under 
stand." 

"Yes,  ye  do." 

Nort  looked  up  at  him  suddenly. 

"Anthy?" 

'You've  said  it;  ye  ain't  fit  fer  her,  an'  ye 
know  it." 

Nort  turned  deadly  pale. 

"  Fergus,"  he  said,  "do  you — have  you— 

"I  promised  Anthy's  father  I'd  look  after 
her,  an'  I  wull." 

"But,  Fergus,  what  have  you  got  against 
me  ?  I  thought  we  were  friends." 

"What's  friendship  to  do  wi'  it?  Ye  ain't 
good  enough  for  Anthy:  an'  I  wull  na'  ha'  ye 
breakin'  her  heart.  Who  are  ye  that  ye  should 
be  lookin'  upon  a  girl  like  that?" 

Fergus's  voice  was  shaking  with  emotion. 

"Well,  I  know  I'm  not  good  enough,  Fergus, 
you're  right  about  that.  No  one  is,  I  think. 
But  I — I  love  her,  Fergus." 


292  HEMPFIELD 

'Ye  love  her:  ye  think  ye  do:  next  week 
ye'll  think  ye  don't." 

At  this  a  flame  of  swift  anger  swep:  over  Nort. 

"  If  I  love  her  and  she  loves  me,  who  else  has 
got  anything  to  say  about  it  I'd  like  to  know  ? " 

"Wull,  I  have,"  said  Fergus  grimly. 

Nort  laughed,  a  nervous,  fevered  laugh,  and 
threw  out  his  arms  in  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Go  away,"  said  Fergus,  "go  away  and  let 
her  alone.  Go  back  whur  ye  come  from,  an' 
break  no  hearts." 

Although  the  words  were  gruff  and  short, 
there  was  a  world  of  pleading  in  them,  too. 
Fergus  had  no  desire  to  hurt  Nort,  but  he 
wanted  to  get  him  away  forever  from  Hemp- 
field.  It  was  only  Anthy  that  he  had  in  mind. 
He  must  save  Anthy.  Nort  felt  this  note  of 
appeal,  and  answered  in  kind: 

"I  can't  do  it,  Fergus,  and  you  have  no 
right  to  ask  me.  If  Anthy  tells  me  to  go,  I 
will  go.  It  is  between  us.  Can't  you  see  it?" 

"Wull,"  said  Fergus,  hopelessly,  "you  an' 
me  must  ha'  it  oot." 

With  this,  Fergus  turned  about  and  began 
to  take  off  his  coat.  Nort  remembered  long 
afterward  the  look  of  Fergus  deliberately 


THE  BATTLE  293 

taking  off  his  coat — his  angular,  bony  form, 
his  wiry,  freckled  neck,  his  rough,  red  hair, 
his  loose  sleeves  held  up  by  gayly  embroidered 
armlets,  the  trousers  bagging  in  extremity  at 
his  knees.  Even  in  that  moment  he  felt  a 
curious  deep  sense  of  pity,  pity  mingled  with 
understanding,  sweep  over  him.  He  had 
come  some  distance  in  the  few  short  hours 
since  Anthy's  face  had  looked  up  into  his. 

Eergus  laid  his  coat  and  hat  at  the  trunk  of 
a  beech  tree  and  began  slowly  to  roll  up  his 
sleeves. 

"Will  ye  fight  wi'  yer  coat  on  or  off?" 

Nort  suddenly  laughed  aloud.  It  was  un 
believable,  ridiculous!  Why,  it  was  uncivi 
lized  !  It  simply  wasn't  done  in  the  world  he 
had  known. 

Nort  had  never  in  his  life  been  held  down 
to  an  irrevocable  law-  or  principle,  never  been 
confronted  by  an  unescapable  fact  of  life. 
Some  men  go  through  their  whole  lives  that 
way.  He  had  never  met  anything  from 
which  there  was  not  some  easy,  safe,  pleasant, 
polite  way  out — his  wit,  his  family  connec 
tions,  his  money.  But  now  he  was  looking  into 
the  implacable,  steel-blue  eyes  of  Fergus 
MacGregor. 


294  HEMPFIELD 

"But,  Fergus,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to 
fight.  I  like  you." 

'There's  them  that  has  to  fight,"  responded 
Fergus. 

"I  never  fought  anybody  in  my  life,"  said 
Nort,  as  though  partly  to  himself. 

'That  may  be  the  trouble  wi'  ye." 

Fergus  continued,  like  some  implacable  fate, 
getting  ready.  He  was  now  hitching  up  his  belt. 

Every  artistic  nature  sooner  or  later  meets 
some  such  irretrievable  human  experience. 
It  asks  only  to  see  life,  to  look  on,  to  enjoy. 
But  one  day  this  artistic  nature  makes  the 
astonishing  discovery  that  nature  plays  no 
favourites,  that  life  is,  after  all,  horribly  con 
crete,  democratic,  little  given  to  polite  dis 
crimination,  and  it  gets  itself  suddenly  taken 
seriously,  literally,  and  dragged  by  the  heels  into 
the  grime  and  common  coarseness  of  things. 

Nort  was  still  inclined  to  argue,  for  it  did 
not  seem  real  to  him. 

"It  won't  prove  anything,  Fergus,  fighting 
never  does." 

"'Fraid,  are  ye?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nort,  "horribly." 

And  yet  at  the  very  moment  that  Nort  was 
saying  that  he  was  horribly  afraid,  and  he 


THE  BATTLE  295 

spoke  the  literal  truth,  a  very  strange  proces 
sion  of  thoughts  was  passing  swiftly  through 
the  back  of  his  mind.  He  was  somehow  stand 
ing  aside  and  seeing  himself  as  he  was  at  that 
moment,  seeing,  indeed,  every  detail  of  the 
scene  before  him  like  a  picture,  every  tree  and 
leaf,  the  carpet  of  leaves  and  bracken,  seeing 
Fergus  moving  about.  Yes,  and  he  was  laugh 
ing,  away  back  there,  at  the  picture  he  saw,  and 
wondering  at  it,  and  thrilling  over  it,  at  the  very 
moment  that  he  was  so  horribly  afraid.  He 
was  even  speculating,  back  there,  a  little 
cynically,  whether  he,  Nort,  would  finally  stay 
to  fight  or  run  away.  He  actually  did  not  know ! 

Fergus's  dull,  direct,  geologic  mind  could 
not  possibly  have  imagined  what  was  passing 
nimbly  behind  those  frightened,  boyish  blue 
eyes.  Fergus  was  moving  straight  ahead  in 
the  path  he  had  planned,  and,  on  the  whole, 
placidly.  What  a  blessing  in  this  world  is  a 
reasonable  amount  of  dulness! 

Flaving  prepared  himself,  Fergus  now  stepped 
forward.  Nort  stood  perfectly  still,  his  arms 
hanging  slack  at  his  sides,  his  face  as  pale  as  mar 
ble,  his  eyes  widening  as  Fergus  approached. 

"I  can't  see  any  reason  for  fighting,"  he  was 
saying.  "Why  should  you  fight  me?" 


296  HEMPFIELD 

"Wull,  we  needna  fight — if  ye'll  go  away." 

For  one  immense  moment  Nort  saw  himself 
running  away,  and  with  an  incredible  inner 
sense  of  relief  and  comfort.  He  wanted  to 
run,  intended  to  run,  but  somehow  he  could 
not.  He  was  afraid  to  fight,  but  somehow  he 
was  still  more  afraid  to  run.  And  then,  with 
a  blinding  flash  he  thought  of  Anthy.  What 
would  she  say  if  she  saw  him  running? 

At  that  moment  Fergus  struck  him  lightly 
on  the  cheek. 

It  was  like  an  electric  shock  to  Nort.  He 
stiffened  in  every  muscle,  red  flashes  passed 
before  his  eyes,  his  throat  twisted  hard  and 
dry,  and  the  tears  came  up  to  his  eyes.  In 
another  moment  he  was  grappling  with  Fer 
gus,  striking  wildly,  blindly.  And  he  was, 
curiously,  no  longer  confused.  An  incredible 
clearness  of  purpose  swept  over  him.  This 
purpose  was  to  kill  Fergus.  There  was  to  be 
no  longer  any  foolery  about  it;  he  was  going 
to  kill  him. 

If  Fergus  had  known  what  Nort  was  think 
ing  at  that  moment  he  would  have  been  hor 
rified  and  shocked  beyond  measure.  Fergus 
had  not  the  most  distant  intent  of  injuring 
Nort  seriously.  He  did  not  even  hate  him, 


THE  BATTLE  297 

but,  I  fully  believe,  really  loved  him,  and  was 
going  through  this  disagreeable  business  quite 
coldly.  As  he  received  Nort's  impetuous 
assault,  he  smiled  with  a  sort  of  high  exulta 
tion  and  found  words  to  remark: 

'The  mair  haste,  Nort,  the  waur  speed." 

With  that  he  hit  out  squarely  with  his 
wiry,  muscular  arm — just  once — and  Nort 
went  down  in  the  bracken  and  lay  quite  still. 

Fergus  stood  looking  down  at  him:  the  si 
lent  face  upturned,  very  white,  very  boyish, 
very  beautiful,  the  soft  hair  tumbling  about 
his  temples,  the  lax  arms  spread  out  among 
the  leaves.  And  all  around  the  still  woods, 
and  quiet  fields,  and  the  robins  singing,  and 
the  sun  coming  up  over  the  hill. 

As  Fergus  looked  down  his  breast  began  to 
heave  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

'The  bonnie,  bonnie  lad,"  he  said;  "he 
wadna  run  awa'." 

Presently  Nort  stirred  uneasily. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  asked. 

"Come,  now,"  said  Fergus  tenderly,  "we'll 
get  down  ta  the  brook." 

With  one  arm  around  him,  Fergus  helped  him 
through  the  woods,  and  knelt  beside  him  while 
he  dashed  the  cold  water  over  his  face  and  head. 


298  HEMPFIELD 

"I  hit  ye  hard,"  said  Fergus,  "and  it's 
likely  yer  eye'll  be  blackened." 

Nort  sat  down  with  his  back  to  a  tree  trunk. 
He  was  sick  and  dizzy.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  thing  he  wanted  most  in  all  the  world 
was  to  be  left  alone. 

"I'm  going  away,  Fergus.  Leave  me  here. 
I  shall  not  go  back  to  Hempfield." 

Fergus  offered  no  excuses,  suggested  no 
change  in  plan.  It  was  working  out  exactly 
as  he  intended:  he  was  sorry  for  Nort,  but 
this  was  his  duty.  He  made  Nort  as  com 
fortable  as  he  could,  and  then  set  off  toward 
town.  As  he  proceeded,  he  stepped  faster 
and  faster.  He  began  to  feel  a  curious  ex 
altation  of  spirit.  It  was  the  greatest  mo 
ment  of  his  whole  life.  If  you  had  seen  him 
at  that  moment,  with  his  head  lifted  high,  you 
would  scarcely  have  known  him.  As  the 
town  came  into  view,  with  the  eastern  sun 
upon  it,  Fergus  burst  out  in  a  voice  as  wild 
and  harsh  as  a  bagpipe: 

"Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  will  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee!" 


THE  BATTLE  299 

For  that  which  followed  I  make  no  ex 
cuse,  nor  think  I  need  to,  but  I  must  tell 
it,  for  it  is  a  part  of  the  history  of  Hempfield 
and  of  the  life  of  Fergus  MacGregor.  Ours 
is  a  temperance  town,  and  Fergus  MacGregor 
a  temperate  man;  but  that  morning  Fergus 
was  seen  going  over  the  hill  beyond  the  town, 
unsteady  in  the  legs,  and  still  singing.  He 
did  not  appear  at  the  office  of  the  Star  all  that 
day. 

As  for  Nort,  he  lay  for  a  long  time  there 
at  the  foot  of  the  beech  tree,  miserably  sick 
in  body  and  soul — dozing  off  from  time  to 
time,  and  trying  to  think,  dumbly,  what  was 
left  to  him  in  the  world.  He  was  as  deep  in 
the  depths  that  morning  as  he  had  been  high 
in  the  heavens  the  evening  before. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

TWO    LETTERS 

I  CAN  imagine  just  how  Nort  looked, 
sitting  in  the  bare  room  of  the  Becllow 
Hotel  of  Hewlett,  biting  the  end  of  his  pen 
and  struggling  furiously  with  his  letter  to 
Anthy.  In  one  moment  he  would  let  him 
self  go  the  limit:  "My  dearest  Anthy,  I 
shall  never  see  you  again,  and  I  can  there 
fore  tell  you  with  the  more  freedom  of  my 
undying  love—  "  and  at  the  next  moment  he 
would  hold  himself  to  the  strictest  restraint: 
"  My  dear  Miss  Doane"  or  "  Dear  Miss  Doane." 

300 


TWO  LETTERS  301 

Half  the  letters  he  wrote  were  too  long,  or  too 
wild,  or  too  passionate,  and  the  other  half  were 
too  short  or  too  cold.  Before  he  got  through, 
the  table  and  floor  all  about  him  were  drifted 
white  with  torn  scraps  of  his  correspondence. 

His  face  was  pale  and  his  hair  was  rumpled. 
For  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  in 
such  deadly  earnest,  so  altogether  miserable, 
that  he  could  not  even  stand  aside  and  see 
himself  with  any  degree  of  interest  or  satis 
faction.  This  was  the  real  thing. 

He  had  firmly  made  up  his  mind  as  to  his 
course.  He  would  no  longer  think  and  talk 
about  doing  something,  great  and  heroic  for 
Anthy.  He  would  really  do  it.  And  he  had 
settled  upon  quite  the  most  heroic  thing  he 
could  think  of — this  extraordinary  young  man 

and  this  was  to  leave  Hempfield,  and  to  see 
no  more  of  Anthy.  Fergus  was  undoubtedly 
right.  He  was  not  worthy  of  Anthy,  and  his 
presence  and  his  love  would  be  a  hindrance 
rather  than  a  help  to  her.  Whatever  Nort 
did  in  those  days  he  did  to  the  utter  extremity. 
And  this  was  the  letter  he  finally  sent : 

MY  DEAR  Miss  DOANK: 

I  am  hopelessly  unfortunate  in  everything  I  do.  I  do 
nothing  but  blunder.  I  hope  you  will  not  think  ill  of  me. 


3o2  HEMPFIELD 

Fergus  is  right.  In  leaving  Hempfield,  not  to  return,  I 
am  leaving  everything  in  the  world  that  means  anything 
to  me.  I  hope  you  will  at  least  set  this  down  to  the 
credit  of 

NORTON  CARR. 

I  was  in  the  office  of  the  Star  when  Nort's 
letter  arrived.  I  saw  Anthy  pause  a  moment, 
standing  very  still  by  her  desk.  I  saw  her 
open  the  letter  slowly,  and  then,  after  reading 
it,  hold  it  hard  in  her  hand,  which  she  uncon 
sciously  lifted  to  her  breast.  I  saw  her  turn 
and  walk  out  of  the  office,  a  curious  rapt  ex 
pression  upon  her  face. 

As  she  entered  the  familiar  hallway  of 
her  home,  she  told  me  afterward,  everything 
seemed  strange  to  her  and  terribly  lonely.  A 
day's  time  had  changed  the  aspect  of  the 
world.  She  sat  down  in  the  study  at  the 
little  desk  where  she  had  found  solace  so  often 
in  writing  letters  to  Mr.  Lincoln.  But  she 
was  not  thinking  now  of  writing  any  such 
letter:  indeed,  the  door  had  already  closed 
upon  this  phase  of  her  imaginative  life,  as  it 
had  closed  on  other  and  earlier  phases.  She 
never  wrote  another  letter  to  Mr.  Lincoln. 

She  was  not  outwardly  excited,  nor  did 
she  tear  up  a  single  sheet  of  notepaper,  nor 


TWO  LETTERS  303 

give  any  attention  to  the  form  of  address. 
Her  letter  was  exactly  like  herself — simple, 
direct,  and  straight  out  of  her  heart.  She 
had  no  need  of  making  any  changes,  for  this 
was  all  she  had  to  say: 

DEAR  NORT: 

Why  have  you  gone  away  from  Hempfield,  and  where 
are  you?  Just  at  the  moment  I  found  you,  and  found 
myself,  you  have  gone  away.  Is  it  anything  I  have 
done,  or  have  not  done  ?  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  look  back, 
that  I  have  been  fast  asleep  all  the  years,  until  last  night 
when  you  wakened  me.  I  know  I  am  awake,  because 
everything  I  see  to-day  is  changed  from  what  it  was 
yesterday;  everything  is  more  beautiful  and  nobler — 
and  sadder.  When  I  went  down  this  morning  I  seemed 
to  see  a  new  Hempfield.  I  loved  it  even  more  than  I 
loved  the  old  Hempfield,  and  as  I  met  the  children  on 
their  way  to  school  I  had  a  new  feeling  for  them,  too. 
They  seemed  very  dear  to  me. 

I  did  not  find  you  at  the  office,  but  my  heart  kept 
saying  to  me,  "Nort  will  soon  be  here.  ...  In  a 
moment  Nort  will  be  coming  in."  Whenever  I  heard  a 
step  on  the  porch  I  said,  "It  is  surely  Nort,"  but  you 
did  not  come.  I  think  the  office  never  seemed  so 
wonderful  to  me  as  it  did  to-day,  for  the  thought  that 
you  had  been  there,  and  would  be  there  again.  Every 
thing  reminded  me  of  you,  of  the  way  you  looked,  and  of 
what  you  did,  and  how  your  voice  sounded. 

And  then  your  letter  came.  Why  have  you  gone 
away  from  Hempfield?  I  could  not  make  it  any  plainer 


3o4  HEMPFIELD 

last  night,  Nort.  I  did  not  understand  it  fully  myself, 
until  afterward.  Don't  you  see?  I  have  nothing  to 
give  that  is  not  yours  for  the  asking.  Come  back,  for  I 
love  you,  Nort. 

ANTHY. 

This  letter,  which  I  did  not  know  about 
until  long  afterward,  was  never  sent,  for 
Anthy  had  no  way  of  addressing  it. 

That  evening,  rereading  Nort's  letter,  she 
said  aloud: 

"What  does  he  mean  by  saying  Fergus  is 
right?  What  has  Fergus  to  do  with  it? 
Where  is  Fergus?" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE    FLYING-MACHINE 

IF  IT  had   not   been   for   a   surprising  and 
amusing  event  which   somewhat  relieved 
the  depression  in  the  office  of  the  Star  of  Hemp- 
field,  the  following  weeks  would  certainly  have 
been  among  the  most  dismal  of  my  life. 

All  the  elasticity  and  interest  and  illusion 
seemed  to  have  departed  from  us  when  Nort 
disappeared.  Everyone,  except  the  old  Cap 
tain,  who  was  like  a  raging  lion,  was  constrained 
and  mysterious.  It  would  have  been  amusing 
if  it  had  not  been  so  serious.  Each  of  us 
was  nursing  a  mystery,  each  was  speculating, 
suspicious. 

305 


3o6  HEMPFIELD 

The  only  one  of  us  who  seemed  to  get  any 
satisfaction  out  of  the  situation  was  Ed  Smith. 
I  think  he  was  unaffectedly  glad  that  Nort 
was  gone.  It  left  the  field  clear  for  him,  and 
on  the  Saturday  night  after  Nort  left,  Ed  put 
on  his  hat  just  as  Anthy  was  leaving  the  office 
and  quite  casually  walked  home  with  her.  He 
ran  on  exactly  as  he  had  always  done — chat 
about  the  business,  and  town  gossip,  which 
always  gravitated  toward  the  personal  and 
intimate,  and,  finally,  if  there  was  half  an 
opportunity,  descended  to  the  little  soft  jokes 
and  purrings  of  sentimentality.  He  followed 
Anthy  up  the  steps  of  her  home,  and  stood, 
hat  in  hand,  still  talking,  and  half  expecting 
to  be  invited  in  to  supper.  He  did  observe 
that  she  was  silent — but  then  she  was  never 
very  talkative.  He  saw  nothing  in  her  face, 
nothing  in  her  eye,  that  he  had  not  seen  before. 

But  to  Anthy,  Ed  Smith  appeared  in  a 
wholly  new  light.  Through  all  the  experi 
ences  and  turmoil  in  the  office  of  the  Star  Ed 
had  not  changed  in  the  least,  and  never  would 
change.  He  was  the  sort  of  person,  and  the 
world  is  full  of  them,  who  is  made  all  of  a  piece 
and  once  for  all,  who  is  not  changed  by  con 
tact  with  life,  and  who,  if  he  possesses  any 


THE  FLYING-MACHINE  307 

marks  of  personality  at  all,  takes  on  in  time 
a  somewhat  comical  aspect.  One  comes  to 
grin  when  he  sees  him  wandering  among  im 
mortal  events  with  such  perfect  aplomb,  such 
unchangeable  satisfaction.  As  Anthy  looked 
now  at  Ed  Smith,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
travelled  an  immeasurable  distance  since  she 
had  left  college,  since  she  took  hold  of  the 
Star,  since  she  first  knew  Ed  Smith  and  had 
even  been  mildly  interested  in  having  him 
call  upon  her.  She  saw  everything  about  her 
life,  the  career  of  the  old  Captain,  the  recent 
events  in  the  history  of  the  Star,  with  incred 
ible  clearness.  Everything  before  had  been 
hazy,  unreal,  dreamlike. 

Fergus  was  by  turns  depressed  and  exultant, 
extremely  silent  or  extremely  loquacious  (for 
him).  Anthy  felt  certain  that  he  had  some 
knowledge  concerning  Nort  that  he  was  con 
cealing,  but  she  shrank  curiously  from  asking 
him. 

It  was  in  this  moment  of  strain  and  depres 
sion  that  Hempfield  passed  through  one  of 
its  most  notable  experiences,  and  the  old 
Captain  established  himself  still  more  firmly 
upon  the  pinnacle  of  his  faith  in  what  he  loved 
to  call  "immutable  laws." 


3o8  HEMPFIELD 

Imagine  what  it  must  have  meant  to  a  tran 
quil  old  village,  settled  in  its  habits,  with  a  due 
sense  of  its  own  dignity  and  of  the  propri 
eties  of  life,  unaccustomed  to  surprises  of  any 
kind,  to  behold,  upon  looking  up  into  the  sky 
on  a  pleasant  spring  afternoon,  a  sight  which 
not  even  the  oldest  inhabitant,  not  even  the 
oldest  hills,  had  ever  beheld,  to  wit,  a  flying- 
machine  soaring  through  the  air.  With  the 
sunlight  flashing  upon  its  wings  it  was  as 
beautiful  and  light  as  some  great  bird,  and 
it  purred  as  it  flew  like  a  live  thing. 

All  Hempfield  ran  into  the  streets  and 
opened  its  mouth  to  the  heavens.  Even  old 
Mrs.  Dana,  who  could  not  leave  her  chair, 
threw  open  the  window  and  craned  her  head 
outward  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  miracle. 
Marvel  of  marvels,  the  flyer  circled  gracefully 
in  two  great  spirals  above  the  town,  and  then 
disappeared  across  the  hills  toward  Hewlett. 
We  held  our  breath  until  we  could  not  even 
see  the  black  speck  in  the  sky,  and  then  we  all 
began  to  talk  at  once.  We  told  one  another 
in  detail  about  our  impressions  and  emotions. 
We  described  our  feeling  when  we  first  saw  the 
wonder,  we  told  exactly  what  we  were  doing 
and  thinking  about,  we  explained  what  we  said 


THE  FLYING-MACHINE  309 

to  George  Andrews,  and  how  comical  Ned 
Boston  looked. 

It  was  Joe  Crane,  the  liveryman,  who 
rushed  into  the  office  of  the  Star  with  the  great 
news.  In  the  simplicity  and  credulity  of  our 
faith  we  all  turned  out  instantly  to  see  the 
wonder  in  the  sky,  all  except  the  old  Captain. 
The  old  Captain  was  deep  in  the  preparation 
of  an  editorial  demolishing  the  Democratic 
party,  and  expressing  his  undying  allegiance 
to  the  high  protective  tariff.  When  Joe 
Crane  stuck  his  head  in  at  the  door,  he  merely 
glanced  around  with  an  aspect  of  large  com 
passion. 

Had  he  not,  again  and  again  in  the  col 
umns  of  the  Star,  proved  the  utter  absurdity 
of  attempting  to  fly?  Had  he  not  shown 
that  human  flight  was  contrary,  not  only  to 
immutable  natural  laws,  but  to  the  moral  law 
as  well  ?  For  over  five  thousand  years  men 
had  lived  upon  this  planet,  and  if  the  Creator 
had  intended  his  children  to  fly,  would  he  not 
have  provided  wings  for  them? 

It  did  not  shake  the  old  Captain  in  the  least 
when  accounts  of  flying-machines — -with  pic 
tures — began  to  appear  in  the  newspapers  and 
magazines.  He  passed  grandly  over  them 


3io 


HEMPFIELD 


with  a  snort.  'Toys!"  "Mere  circus  tricks 
to  take  in  fools!"  And  if  pressed  a  little 
too  hard,  and  there  were  those  who  delighted 
in  slyly  prodding  the  Captain  with  innocent 
remarks  about  flying-machines,  until  it  had 
become  not  a  little  of  a  town  joke,  he  would 
clear  the  air  with  an  explosive  "Fudge!"  and 
go  calmly  about  his  business. 

When  the  supreme  test  came,  and  we  cred- 


"Toys!  "     "  Mere  circus  tricks  to  take  in  fools! 


THE  FLYING-MACHINE  311 

ulous  ones  all  rushed  out  of  the  office,  and 
craned  our  necks,  and  searched  the  ancient 
sky  for  the  miracle,  the  old  Captain  stood 
staunchly  by  his  faith.  It  couldn't  be  so, 
therefore  it  wasn't — a  doctrine  which,  I  am 
convinced,  leads  to  much  satisfaction  and 
comfort  in  this  world.  The  old  Captain  was, 
upon  the  whole,  a  happy  man. 

The  Star,  therefore,  remained  oblivious  to 
the  most  interesting  event  that  had  taken 
place  in  Hempfield  for  many  a  day. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL 

NEVERTHELESS,  the  flying-machine  epi 
sode  played  its  part  in  the  history  of 
the  Star.  Facts  are  like  that.  We  refuse 
quite  disdainfully  to  recognize  them,  even  cry 
ing  "Fudge!"  and  "Nonsense!"  and  decline 
to  put  them  in  the  Star,  or  the  Su?i,  or  the 
World,  or  even  in  the  sober  Journal  of  the 
Society  for  the  Enlargement  of  Human  Heads, 
but  they  don't  mind.  They  circle  around  us, 
with  the  sunshine  flashing  on  their  wings,  and 
all  the  simple  and  credulous  people  gaping  up 

312 


RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL       313 

at  them,  and  they  don't  in  the  least  care  for 
our  excellent  platforms,  constitutions,  and 
Bibles. 

It  was  the  flying-machine  incident  which 
was  the  immediate  cause  of  the  return  of 
Norton  Carr.  It  was  foreordained  and  like 
wise  predestined  that  he  should  return,  but 
there  had  to  be  some  proximate  event.  And 
what  better  than  a  wandering  flying-machine? 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  in  May,  such  a  perfect 
still  morning  as  seems  to  come  only  at  that 
moment  of  the  spring,  and  upon  Sunday. 
I  was  sitting  here  at  my  desk  at  the  open  win 
dow,  busily  writing.  I  could  feel  the  warm, 
sweet  air  of  spring  blowing  in,  I  could  hear  the 
pleasant,  subdued  noises  from  the  barnyard, 
and  by  leaning  just  a  little  back  I  could  see  the 
hens  lazily  fluffing  their  feathers  in  the  sunny 
doorway  of  the  barn.  I  love  such  mornings. 

The  tender  new  shoots  of  the  Virginia 
creeper  were  uncurling  themselves  at  the  win 
dow  ledge  and  feeling  their  way  upward 
toward  freedom — and  Nort  put  his  head  in 
among  them. 

"Hello,  David!" 

Though  I  had  just  been  thinking  of  him,  the 
sound  of  his  voice  startled  me.  I  looked 


HEMPFIELD 

around  and  saw  him  smiling  very  much  in  his 
old  way. 

"Nort,  you  rascal!"  said  I. 

"David,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't  stay  away 
another  minute.  I  had  to  know  what  the  old 
Captain  said  and  did  when  the  flying-machine 
came  to  Hempfield." 


"  I  couldn't  stay  away  another  minute.  I  had  to  know 
what  the  old  Captain  said  and  did  when  the  flying-machine 
came  to  Hempfield  " 


RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL       315 

"Is  that  all  you  came  back  for?" 

"May  I  come  in?"  And  with  that  he 
climbed  in  at  the  window.  I  took  him  by 
both  his  shoulders  and  looked  him  in  the  eye. 
I  had  a  curious  sense  of  gladness  in  having 
him  once  more  under  my  hand. 

'You  look  thin,  Nort,  but  I  haven't  any 
pity  or  sympathy  for  you.  What  have  you 
been  up  to  now?" 

We  both  forgot  all  about  the  flying-machine. 

"Well,  David,"  said  he,  "I've  been  finding 
out  some  things  I  didn't  know  before — some 
things  I  can't  do." 

He  was  in  a  mood  wholly  unfamiliar  to  me,  a 
sort  of  restrained,  sad,  philosophical  mood. 

'You  know,"  he  continued,  "I  had  a  great 
idea  for  a  novel  - 

He  paused  and  looked  up  at  me,  smiling 
rather  sheepishly. 

"Well,  I  started  it- 

"You  have!" 

'Yes,  I  got  the  first  two  paragraphs  written. 
And  there  I  stuck.  You  see  I  didn't  know 
where  to  get  hold;  and  then  I  thought  I'd 
jump  right  into  the  middle  of  the  action, 
where  it  was  hottest  and  most  interesting— 
but  I  found  that  my  hero  insisted  on  explain- 


316  HEMPFIELD 

ing  everything  to  the  heroine,  and  wouldn't 
do  anything,  and  then,  when  I  tried  to  think 
how  I  should  have  it  all  come  out,  I  found  it 
didn't  have  any  end,  either.  I  leave  it  to  you, 
David,  how  any  man  is  going  to  write  a  novel 
which  he  can  neither  get  into  nor  get  out  of?" 

His  face  wore  such  a  rueful,  humorous  look 
that  I  laughed  aloud. 

"It  looks  funny,  I  know,"  he  said,  "but 
it's  really  no  laughing  matter.  It  seems  to  me 
I'm  a  complete  fizzle." 

"At  twenty-five,  Nort!  And  all  this  beau 
tiful  world  around  you!  Why,  you've  only  to 
reach  out  your  hand  and  take  what  you  want." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  on  Nort's 
face  as  he  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  nor  the 
words  that  seemed  to  be  wrung  out  of  his  very 
soul: 

'That's  all  right  as  philosophy,  David, 
but  I — want — Anthy." 

I  suppose  I  had  known  it  all  along,  and 
should  not  have  been  surprised  or  pained, 
and  yet  it  was  a  moment  before  I  could  reply. 

'Take  her  then,  Nort,"  I  said,  "if  you're 
big  enough.  But  you  can't  steal  her,  as 
they  once  stole  their  women;  and  you  can't 
buy  her,  as  they  do  still." 


RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL       317 

Nort  looked  at  me  steadily. 

"How,  then?" 

'You've  got  to  win  her,  earn  her.     She's 
as  able  to  take  care  of  herself  as  you  are." 

"I  guess  it's  hopeless  enough.  There  isn't 
much  chance  that  a  girl  like  Anthy  will  see 
anything  in  a  perfectly  useless  chap  like  me." 

We  sat  for  some  time  silent,  Nort  there  in 
the  chair  at  the  end  of  the  table,  I  here  by  the 
window,  and  the  warm  air  of  spring  coming 
in  laden  with  the  heavy  sweet  odour  of  lilac 
blossoms.  And  I  had  a  feeling  at  the  moment 
as  though  my  hand  were  upon  the  destinies 
of  two  lives. 

I  don't  know  yet  quite  why  I  did  it,  but 
I  leaned  over  presently  and  opened  the  drawer 
in  my  desk  where  I  keep  my  greatest  treasures, 
and  took  out  a  small  package  of  letters.  It 
was  my  prize  possession,  the  knowledge  I  had 
of  the  deep  things  in  Anthy's  life,  a  possession 
that  I  had  never  thought  I  could  share  with 
any  one,  and  yet  at  that  moment  it  seemed 
to  me  I  wanted  most  of  all  to  have  Nort  know 
with  what  a  high  and  precious  thing  he  was 
dealing — the  noble  heart  of  a  good  woman. 

So  I  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  the  Anthy  I 
knew,  told  him  about  the  secret  post-office 


318  HEMPFIELD 

box  behind  the  portrait  of  Lincoln  in  the  study 
of  her  father's  home,  and  of  the  letters  she 
wrote  and  posted  there.  Then  I  opened  one 
of  the  letters  and  handed  it  to  him.  I  watched 
him  as  he  read  it,  his  hand  trembling  just  a 
little.  At  last  he  looked  up  at  me — with  his 
bare  soul  in  his  eyes.  He  got  up  slowly  from 
his  chair  and  looked  all  about  him,  and  then 
he  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  himself: 

"She  was  in  here  once,  in  this  room,  in 
this  chair." 

I  have  never  been  quite  sure  what  Nort's 
mental  processes  were  at  that  moment,  but 
at  least  they  were  swift,  and  as  terribly  serious 
as  only  youth  knows  how  to  be.  And  absurd  r 
Probably. 

"David,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  away." 

"Going  away?     Why?" 

"David,"  said  he,  "I  don't  suppose  there 
was  ever  in  this  world  such  a  great  character 
as  Anthy — I  mean  such  a  inily  great  char 
acter." 

He  paused,  looking  at  me  intensely.  If 
I  had  known  that  the  next  moment  was  to  be 
my  last  I  should  still  have  laughed,  laughed 
irresistibly.  It  was  the  moment  when  the 
high  mood  became  unbearable.  Moreover, 


RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL       319 

I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Anthy  herself,  in 
her  long  gingham  apron,  going  sensibly, 
cheerfully,  about  the  printing-office,  a  stick 
of  type  in  her  hand,  and,  very  likely,  a  smudge 
of  printer's  ink  on  her  nose!  Why  do  such 
visions  smite  us  at  our  most  solemn  moments? 
Nort  was  taken  aback  at  my  laughter,  and 
evidently  provoked. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Nort,"  I  said.  "I 
wonder  if  Anthy  herself  wouldn't  laugh  if 
she  were  to  hear  you  say  such  things." 

"That's  so,"  said  Nort.  "She  would.  I've 
never  known  any  one,  man  or  woman,  who 
had  such  a  keen  sense  of  humour  as  Anthy 
has." 

"Sensible,  too,  Nort- 

"Sensible!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  should  rather 
say  so!  I  have  never  seen  any  one  in  my  life 
who  was  as  sensible — I  mean  sound  and  wise 
—as  Anthy  is." 

Two  months  before,  Nort  himself  would 
have  been  the  first  to  laugh  at  such  a  situation 
as  this:  he  would  have  laughed  at  himself, 
at  me,  and  even  at  Anthy,  but  now  he  was  in 
no  such  mood.  I  prize  the  memory  of  that 
moment;  it  was  one  of  those  rare  times  in  life 
when  it  is  given  us  to  see  a  human  spirit  at 


320  HEMPFIELD 

the  moment  of  its  greatest  truth,  simplicity, 
passion.  And  is  it  not  a  worthy  moment 
when  everything  that  is  selfish  in  a  human 
heart  is  consumed  in  the  white  heat  of  a 
great  emotion? 

Toward  noon,  when  Harriet  came  in,  greatly 
astonished  to  find  a  visitor  with  me,  Nort 
quite  shocked  her  by  jumping  up  from  his 
chair  and  seizing  her  by  both  hands. 

"I'm  terribly  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Gray- 
son,"  he  said. 

During  dinner  he  seemed  unable  to  tell 
whether  he  was  eating  chicken  or  pie,  and  no 
sooner  were  we  through  than  he  insisted  upon 
hurrying  away.  He  pledged  me  to  secrecy 
concerning  his  whereabouts,  but  left  his  ad 
dress. 


FERGUS  MACGREGOR  GOES  TO  THE  HILLS 

I  THINK  of  no  act  in  all  the  drama  of  the 
Star  of  Hempfield  with  greater  affection, 
return  in  memory  to  none  with  deeper  pleas 
ure,  than  that  which  now  opened  upon  the 
narrow  stage  of  our  village  life.  It  centred 
around  Nort  and  Anthy,  of  course,  but  it 
began  with  the  old  Captain,  and  about  a  week 
after  Nort's  visit  at  the  farm. 

The  old  Captain  was  sick  in  bed  with  one 
of  his  periodical  "attacks."  The  old  Captain 
was  a  man  of  great  robustity  and  activity  of 
both  body  and  mind,  and  he  made  no  docile 
invalid.  At  one  moment  he  seemed  to  be 
greatly  depressed,  groaned  a  good  deal,  and 

321 


322  HEMPFIELD 

considered  that  he  had  not  long  to  live;  but 
at  the  next  moment  he  would  become  im 
patient,  and  want  to  be  up  immediately  and 
save  the  nation  from  the  ravages  of  the  Demo 
cratic  party.  I  went  over  to  see  him  on  the 
second  day  of  his  illness,  and  the  first  thing 
he  said  when  I  came  in  was  this: 

"Where's  Nort  ?  I'd  like  to  know  what's 
become  of  the  boy.  I  never  thought  he'd 
leave  Hempfield  without  at  least  saying  good 
bye.  It  isn't  like  him." 

In  writing  to  Nort  that  night,  I  told  him 
of  my  visit  to  the  old  Captain  and  what  the 
Captain  said,  and  on  the  second  morning,  when 
I  walked  into  the  office  of  the  Star,  what  was 
my  astonishment  to  see  Nort  down  on  his 
knees  tinkering  the  gasoline  engine. 

Fergus  was  sitting  stiffly  on  his  stool,  with 
his  old  green  shade  over  his  eyes.  I  learned 
afterward  the  exact  circumstances  of  the 
meeting  between  the  two  men.  Nort  had 
walked  in  quite  as  usual,  and  hung  his  coat 
on  the  customary  hook. 

"Hello,  Fergus!"  he  said,  also  quite  as 
usual. 

Fergus  looked  around  at  him,  and  said 
nothing  at  all.  Nort  walked  over  to  the 


GOES  TO  THE  HILLS  323 

stone,  took  up  a  stickful  of  type,  and  began 
to  distribute  it  in  the  cases.  Presently  he 
looked  around  at  Fergus  with  a  broad  smile 
on  his  face. 

"Fergus,  where's  the  fatted  calf?" 

"Humph!"  remarked  Fergus. 

When  Nort  got  down  for  another  take  of 
the  type,  Fergus  observed  to  the  general  at 
mosphere: 

'The  old  engine's  out  of  order." 

Nort  stepped  impulsively  toward  Fergus's 
case,  and  said  with  wistful  affection  in  his 
voice: 

"I  knew,  Fergus,  that  you'd  kill  the  fatted 
calf  for  me!" 

"Humph!"  observed  Fergus. 

And  that  was  why  I  found  Nort  bending 
over  the  engine  when  I  came  in,  whistling 
quite  in  his  old  way.  The  moment  he  saw 
me,  he  forestalled  any  remark  by  inquiring: 

"How's  the  Cap'n  to-day?" 

Anthy  did  not  come  to  the  office  at  all 
that  morning,  and  toward  noon  I  saw  Nort 
rummaging  among  the  exchanges  and,  having 
found  what  he  wanted,  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  out.  He  walked  straight  up  the  street 
to  the  homestead  of  the  Doanes — his  legs 


324  HEMPFIELD 

shaking  under  him.  At  the  gate  he  paused 
and  looked  up,  seriously  considered  running 
away,  and  went  in  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

By  some  fortunate  circumstance  Anthy 
had  seen  him  at  the  gate,  and  now  came  to  the 
door  quite  calmly. 

"How's  the  Captain?"  asked  Nort,  control 
ling  his  voice  with  difficulty.  "David  wrote 
me  that  he  was  sick.  I  thought  I  might  cheer 
him  up." 

"Won't  you  come  in?" 

At  that  moment  the  old  Captain's  voice  was 
heard  from  upstairs,  booming  vigorously: 

"Is  that  Nort?     Come  up,  Nort!" 

Anthy  smiled.  She  was  now  perfectly 
self-possessed,  and  it  was  Nort,  the  assured, 
the  self-confident,  who  had  become  hopelessly 
awkward  and  uncertain. 

"Come  up,  Nort!"  called  the  old  Captain. 

When  he  entered  the  bedroom,  the  old 
Captain  was  propped  up  on  the  pillows,  his 
thick  white  hair  brushed  back  from  his  noble 
head.  He  was  evidently  very  much  better. 

"Captain,"  said  Nort,  instantly,  before  the 
old  Captain  had  a  moment  to  express  his  sur 
prise,  "have  you  seen  the  Sterling  Democrat 
this  week?" 


GOES  TO  THE  HILLS  325 

"No,"  said  the  Captain,  starting  up  in  bed. 
''  What's  that  man  Kendrick  been  doing  now  ?" 

"Listen  to  this,"  said  Nort,  pulling  the 
paper  out  of  his  pocket  and  opening  it  with  a 
vast  simulation  of  excitement,  and  reading 
the  heading  aloud: 

"  Where  was  Captain  Doane  when  the  flying- 
machine  visited  liempfield?" 

"Why,  the  scoundrel!"  exclaimed  the  old 
Captain,  this  time  sitting  straight  up  in  bed, 
"the  arrant  scoundrel!" 

As  Nort  read  the  paragraph  the  old  Captain 
sank  back  on  the  pillows,  and  when  it  was 
ever  he  remarked  in  a  tone  of  broad  tolerance: 

"Nort,  what  can  you  expect  of  a  Demo 
crat,  anyway?" 

He  lay  musing  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
called  out  in  a  loud  voice: 

"  Anthy,  I'm  going  to  get  up." 

The  old  war  horse  had  sniffed  the  breeze 
of  battle.  When  Nort  went  out,  he  saw  noth 
ing  of  Anthy. 

Never  were  there  such  puzzling  days  as 
those  which  followed.  To  all  outward  ap 
pearance  the  life  in  the  office  of  the  Star  had 


326  HEMPFIELD 

been  restored  to  its  former  humdrum.  The 
incident  of  Nort's  disappearance  was  as  if  it 
had  not  happened.  The  business  of  printing 
a  country  newspaper  proceeded  with  the  ut 
most  decorum.  And  yet  there  was  a  difference 
—a  difference  in  Nort.  He  was  in  a  mood  un 
like  anything  we  had  seen  before.  He  was 
much  less  boyish,  more  dignified,  dignified  at 
times  to  the  point  of  being  almost  amusing. 
Once  or  twice  he  thoughtlessly  broke  out  with 
some  remark  that  suggested  his  old  enthu 
siasm — but  caught  himself  instantly.  Also, 
he  had  very  little  to  say  to  Anthy,  did  not 
once  offer  to  \valk  home  with  her,  and  seemed 
to  be  most  friendly  of  all  with  the  old  Captain. 
Also,  I  found  that  he  was  often  in  the  office  at 
night,  sometimes  writing  furiously,  and  some 
times  reading  from  a  big  solid  book — which 
he  seemed  so  unwilling  for  us  to  see  that  he 
carried  it  home  with  him  every  night. 

I  was  greatly  puzzled,  but  not  more  puzzled 
and  disturbed  than  Anthy  was.  To  her  sim 
ple,  direct  nature  Nort's  moods  were  inex 
plicable;  and  after  what  had  happened,  his 
mysterious  attitude  toward  her  troubled  and 
hurt  her  deeply.  Two  or  three  times  when 
we  happened  to  be  alone  together  I  felt  cer- 


GOES  TO  THE  HILLS  327 

tain  that  she  was  leading  up  to  the  subject, 
and,  finally,  one  evening  when  I  had  gone  out 
with  the  old  Captain  to  supper,  and  Anthy  and 
I  werewalkingafterward  in  the  little  garden  be 
hind  the  house,  it  came  to  the  surface.  There 
was  an  old  garden  seat  at  the  end  of  the  path, 
with  clambering  rose  vines,  now  in  full  leaf, 
but  not  in  blossom,  upon  it.  It  was  a  charm 
ing  spot,  with  an  ancient  apple  tree  not  far 
away,  and  all  around  it  a  garden  of  old- 
fashioned  flowers.  We  sat  down  on  the  seat. 

"David,"  she  said,  evidently  with  some 
effort,  "I'm  puzzled  about  Norton  Carr. 
What  has  come  over  him?  He's  so  different." 

"I'm  puzzled,  too,"  I  said,  k  but  probably 
not  so  much  as  you  are.  I  think  I  know  the 
real  cause  of  the  trouble." 

Anthy  looked  around  at  me,  but  I  did  not 
turn  my  head.  The  evening  shadows  were 
tailing.  I  felt  again  that  I  was  in  the  presence 
of  high  events. 

"He  seems  so  preoccupied,"  she  continued 
finally. 

'Yes,  I've  wondered  what  book  it  is  he  is 
reading  so  industriously." 

"Oh,  I  saw  that,"  she  said. 

"What  was  it?"  I  asked  eagerly. 


328  HEMPFIELD 

"Nicolay  and  Hay's  'Life  of  Abraham 
Lincoln." 

It  struck  me  all  in  a  heap,  and  I  laughed 
aloud — and  yet  I  heard  of  Nort's  reading  not 
without  a  thrill. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Anthy. 
"What  does  it  all  mean?" 

I  had  very  much  the  feeling  at  that  moment 
that  I  had  when  I  took  Anthy's  letters  from  my 
desk  to  show  to  Nort,  as  though  I  was  about  to 
share  a  great  and  precious  treasure  with  Anthy. 

So  I  told  her,  very  quietly,  about  Nort's 
visit  to  me  and  some  of  the  things  he  said. 
She  sat  very  still,  her  hands  lying  in  her  lap, 
her  eyes  on  some  shadowy  spot  far  across  the 
garden.  I  paused,  wondering  how  much  I 
dared  tell. 

"I  don't  know,  Anthy,  that  I  was  doing 
right,"  I  said,  "but  I  wanted  him  to  know 
something  of  you  as  you  really  are.  So  I  told 
him  about  your  letters  to  Lincoln,  and  showed 
him  one  of  them." 

She  flushed  deeply. 

"You  couldn't,  David!" 

"Yes,  I  did — and  that  may  explain  why 
he's  reading  the  life  of  Lincoln.  Maybe  he's 
trying  to  imitate  Lincoln." 


GOES  TO  THE  HILLS  329 

"Imitate  Lincoln— 

The  sound  of  her  voice  as  she  said  these 
words  I  think  will  never  go  quite  out  of  my 
memory:  it  was  so  soft  and  deep,  so  tremulous. 

And  then  something  happened  that  I  can 
not  fully  explain,  nor  think  of  without  a  thrill. 
Anthy  turned  quickly  toward  me,  looked  at 
me  through  shiny  tears,  and  put  her  head 
quickly  and  impulsively  down  upon  my 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  David,"  she  said,  "I  love  you!" 

But  I  knew  well  what  she  meant.  It  was 
that  great  moment  in  a  woman's  life  when  in 
loving  the  loved  one  she  loves  all  the  world. 
She  was  not  thinking  that  moment  of  me,  dear 
though  I  might  have  been  to  her  as  a  friend, 
but  of  Nort — of  Nort. 

It  was  only  a  moment,  and  then  she  leaned 
quickly  back,  looking  at  me  with  starry  eyes 
and  a  curious  trembling  lift  of  the  lips. 

"But  David,"  she  said,  "I  don't  want  him 
like  Lincoln." 

The  thought  must  have  raised  in  her  mind 
some  vision  of  the  sober-sided  Nort  of  the  last 
few  weeks,  for  she  began  to  laugh  again.  I 
cannot  describe  it,  for  it  was  a  laughter  so 
compounded  of  tenderness,  joy,  sympathy, 


330  HEMPFIELD 

amusement,  that  it  fairly  set  one's  heart  to 
vibrating.     There   was   no   part   of  Anthy— 
sweet,  strong,  loving — that  was  not  in  that 
laugh. 

"I  don't  want  him  like  Lincoln,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  want  him  like?"  I  asked. 

"Why  exactly  like  himself,  like  Nort." 

"But  I  thought  you  rather  distrusted  his 
flightiness." 

She  was  hugging  herself  with  her  arms,  and 
rocking  a  little  back  and  forth.  An  odd 
wrinkle  came  in  her  forehead. 

"David,  I  did — I  do — but  somehow  I  like 
it — I  love  it." 

She  paused. 

"It  seems  to  me  I  like  everything  about 
Nort." 

Do  you  realize  that  such  beautiful  things 
as  these  are  going  on  all  around  us,  in  an  evil 
and  trouble-ridden  old  world  ?  That  in  nearly 
all  lives  there  are  such  perfect  moments: 
Only  we  don't  remember  them.  We  grow  old 
and  wrinkled  and  sick;  we  bicker  with  those 
we  love;  it  grows  harder  to  remember,  easier 
to  forget. 

I  was  going  to  say  that  this  was  the  end  ot 
the  story  of  the  Star  of  Hempfield,  but  I  know 


GOES  TO  THE  HILLS  331 

better,  of  course.  It  was  only  the  begin 
ning. 

"Nort,  my  boy,  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it!"  said 
the  old  Captain,  when  Anthy  and  Nort  told 
him,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing  until  two  minutes 
before. 

Fergus  saw  Nort  and  Anthy  come  in  to 
gether,  and  knew  without  being  told.  He  sat 
firmly  on  his  stool  until  they  went  out  again, 
so  absorbed  in  their  own  happiness  that  they 
never  noticed  him  at  all,  and  then  he  climbed 
down  and  took  off  his  apron  deliberately.  He 
felt  about  absently  for  his  friendly  pipe,  put  it 
slowly  in  his  mouth,  but  did  not  light  it.  He 
stuck  his  small  battered  volume  of  Robert 
Burns's  poems  in  his  pocket — and  going  out 
of  the  back  door  struck  out  for  the  hills.  The 
next  morning  he  was  back  on  his  stool  again 
just  as  usual.  It  would  have  been  impossible 
to  print  the  Star  of  Hempfield  without  Fergus 
MacGregor. 

On  a  June  day  I  finish  this  narrative  and 
lay  down  my  pen. 

An  hour  ago  I  walked  along  the  lane  to  the 
top  of  my  pasture  to  take  a  look  at  the  distant 


332 


HEMPFIELD 


town.  In  the  meadows  the  red  clover  is  in 
full  blossom,  the  bobolinks  are  hovering  and 
singing  over  the  low  spots,  and  the  cattle  are 


Fergus  stuck  his  small  battered  volume  of  Robert  Burns's 
poems  in  his  pocket — and  going  out  of  the  back  door  struck 
out  for  the  hills 


GOES  TO  THE  HILLS  333 

feeding  contentedly  in  all  the  pastures.  I 
have  never  seen  the  wild  raspberry  bushes 
setting  such  a  wealth  of  fruit,  nor  the  black 
berries  so  full  of  bloom.  The  grass  is  nearly 
ripe  for  the  cutting. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  I  stood  for  a  long 
time  looking  off  across  the  still  countryside 
toward  the  town.  .  .  .  It  is  here,  after 
all,  that  I  belong! 

I  come  to  the  end  of  the  narrative  of  the  Star 
of  Hempfield  with  an  indescribable  sadness  of 
regret.  So  much  I  proposed  myself  when  I  set 
out  to  write  the  story  of  my  friends ;  and  so  very 
little  have  I  accomplished !  I  can  see  now  that 
I  have  not  taken  all  of  Hempfield — no,  not  the 
half  of  it — nor  even  all  of  my  friends;  but  per 
haps  I  have  taken  all  that  I  could,  all  that  was 
mine. 

As  I  came  down  the  hill  my  mind  went 
out  warmly  toward  the  printing-office  of 
the  Star  of  Hempfield,  and  I  thought  of  the 
pleasant  old  garden  in  front  of  it,  of  the  curious 
bird  house,  built  like  a  miniature  Parthenon 
at  the  gable  end,  where  the  wrens  were  now 
rearing  their  broods,  I  thought  of  Dick,  the 
canary,  and  of  Tom,  the  cat,  sleeping  comfort 
ably,  as  I  so  often  saw  him,  in  a  patch  of  sun- 


334  HEMPFIELD 

light  on  the  floor — and  then,  like  a  great  wave 
of  friendly  warmth,  came  the  full  realization 
of  my  friends  there  in  the  office  of  the  Star  of 
Hempfield,  so  that  I  seemed  to  see  them  living 
before  my  eyes.  I  thought  of  how  we  had 
worked  together  for  so  many  months,  how 
we  had  enjoyed  one  another,  had  been  thrust 
apart  and  drawn  together  again,  had  changed, 
indelibly,  one  another's  inmost  lives,  and  so 
played  our  little  parts  for  a  brief  time  upon 
the  stage  of  life  in  a  country  town. 

As  I  came  down  the  hill,  reflecting  upon 
all  these  things,  I  found  myself  repeating 
aloud  the  words  of  Miranda: 

"Oh  wonder! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is!     O  brave  new  world 
That  has  such  people  in't." 

And  so  my  narrative  must  close.  Friendly 
town  of  Hempfield!  Even  if  I  write  no  more 
about  you  I  shall  still  feel  your  presence  just 
beyond  the  hills.  On  calm  mornings  from 
the  top  of  my  pasture  I  shall  see  the  smoke  of 
your  friendly  fires,  and  when  the  wind  favours 
on  sunny  Sabbath  mornings  I  shall  hear  the 


GOES  TO  THE  HILLS  335 

distant  and  drowsy  sweet  sound  of  your  bells. 
And  Anthy  and  Nort,  Fergus  MacGregor, 
and  Captain  Doane,  and  Ed  Smith — how  I 
have  enjoyed  you  all  and  all  I  have  known 
of  you!  As  I  look  back  to  the  time  before 
I  knew  you  the  world  seems  small  and  cold, 
and  even  the  hills  and  the  fields  and  the  town 
somehow  less  admirable.  I  shall  not  easily 
let  you  go  out  of  my  life!  And  twinkling 
Star  of  Hempfield — may  you  long  continue 
to  illuminate  this  small  corner  of  the  world! 


THE    END 


DATE  DUE 


•f:" 


" 


PRINTED  IN  U.S 


^'^"''^•isSs^  -  •*•>-•.. .-«3  "•'•*••  ^•w^'i^"' 


